


Twilight Paths

by Aini_NuFire



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Action/Adventure, Also a very cute fennec fox, BAMF Everybody, BAMF Radagast, Curses, Drama, Fantasy Horror, Friendship, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt Legolas, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Kidnapped Legolas, Lots of Whump, Mystery, Nightmare World, Pre-War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-08
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-06-07 06:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 45,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6791278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/pseuds/Aini_NuFire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas becomes the catalyst in a plot to destroy Mirkwood when a mysterious illness begins to strike down elves. While friends and wizards desperately search for answers, Legolas and others find themselves on an equally harrowing journey to survive a strange and terrifying dreamscape beyond any world they've ever known.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Traps

**Author's Note:**

> I have a handful of LOTR fics over on ff.net from 2015, and hadn't transferred them over before because I didn't think there was an audience for them over here. But I stand corrected by at least one person, so in case there are other LOTR fans on this site, here we go.
> 
> Set TA 2070, seven years into the Watchful Peace

Legolas bent down and picked up a long, thin branch, eyeing it critically. The wood was firm, and the length would provide for two arrows. Satisfied, he broke it in half over his knee and stuck the pieces in his quiver. Already he’d found a dozen good branchlets he could whittle into appropriate shafts. Legolas didn’t need to forage for materials to make his own arrows, though he enjoyed it on occasion. So when Lícumon suggested a trip into the forest for such a task, Legolas was happy to agree.

He turned in a half-circle, searching for his companion. They had wandered further from the palace than Legolas would have normally liked. Greenwood the Great was no longer the beautiful and glorious realm it had once been. Though Sauron no longer inhabited the fortress of Dol Guldur in the south, and the elves had declared this time as the Watchful Peace, the darkness that had infected Mirkwood had not fled with its master. Evil creatures roamed freely, growing more bold each year. The rest of Middle-earth may have been basking in their peaceful reprieve, but the elves of the Woodland Realm were still living on a battlefield.

Legolas moved silently under the canopy of dark leaves, footsteps barely rustling the underbrush. Every few minutes he heard the trill of a bird flitting above, so he was not worried about coming upon a giant spider or wolves. Yet.

Rounding the trunk of a large oak, Legolas drew to a stop as he spotted Lícumon sitting cross-legged on the ground next to a clematis plant, weaving a garland crown of flowers. The dark-haired elf’s fingers moved deftly, twisting and braiding the flexible twine and purple blossoms. Shaking his head, Legolas scooped up an acorn and tossed it, hitting Lícumon squarely in the forehead.

The other elf’s hands instantly stilled, and he looked up with a vexed expression. “Ow.”

Legolas’s lips twitched. “I see now why you wanted an excursion to gather arrow shafts—so you could pick flowers for Mirime.”

Lícumon ducked his gaze in an unsuccessful bid to hide his blush. “It was just an afterthought.”

“Do not tell her that. Though you are a terrible liar; why else would you insist on coming this far into the forest if not to find that particular rare beauty?” Legolas nodded to the star-shaped blossoms with various shades of plum and lavender strips inside the petals.

Lícumon rolled his shoulder, undeniably caught. “They are her favorite. I’m sorry, Legolas, I did not mean to deceive you.”

He shrugged. “It has been a fruitful morning for me as well.” He shifted slightly to indicate his full quiver. “But if you are finished, perhaps we should return now.”

With a nod, Lícumon rolled to his feet, and the two began heading back toward the palace.

“When will you grow tired of dancing around each other and declare your intentions?” Legolas asked, not unkindly.

Lícumon sighed, tipping his head back to gaze at the tightly knit branches and mottled leaves. “In truth, I do not know. We are still at war. There may be a lull in the fighting, but it is only a matter of time before it starts up again. I…do not wish to make things more difficult for her should I one day perish.”

Legolas did not reply. He understood Lícumon’s position, knew the darkness would only grow stronger and that sacrifices would be made in the fight to protect their home. It was inevitable. Yet, they also could not say that once the war was over, they could be together, for no one saw an end to the encroaching Shadow. Still, Legolas felt the urge to comfort his friend somehow.

“Perhaps—”

There was a soft click, and Lícumon suddenly stumbled as a shower of leaves burst up from the ground, an agonized scream tearing from his throat. He fell before Legolas could catch him, landing at an awkward angle on his side with his hands clutching his leg—right above where a row of iron teeth had sunken into flesh. Legolas’s stomach lurched, and he dropped down beside Lícumon, bracing his shoulders as the elf shuddered and gasped in pain.

“Lie still,” he commanded, and though it was difficult, Lícumon threw his head back against the ground in an effort to cease his movements. His cheeks puffed with exertion as he bit back another scream.

Legolas swept his gaze over the trap in a quick assessment. Four teeth on each side had snapped around the front and back of Lícumon’s leg. The two middle ones had pierced muscle, and though blood lined the edges of the entry points, the clamp was tight enough to staunch the bleeding. One of the outer teeth, however, had scored across the side, stripping away fabric and flesh. A crimson stain had already soaked through the calf legging. Based on the size of the teeth, it was possible they may have even broken through the bone. Legolas uttered a low curse; who would dare set such traps in the forest?

“I am going to try to remove it,” he warned. Gripping the sides of the metal jaws, Legolas pulled as hard as he could. Lícumon grunted, which quickly turned to a strangled cry. Legolas yanked his hands away and rocked back; he hadn’t been able to budge the trap at all.

He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, feeling the minute shivers running through Lícumon. “I’m sorry, _mellon_. Breathe.”

Lícumon’s cheek was pressed into the dirt, eyes squeezed shut, but he managed a small nod. Legolas regarded the iron maw with dread and simmering ire. A heavy chain attached to a solid lead bolt had been hammered into the ground so as to prevent any prey from limping off with the thing attached. And the spring coil was too strong for him to force open himself. Legolas cast a helpless look around the forest; they were a few miles from the palace, and not in a place where a patrol was likely to come upon them.

“You must…go for help,” Lícumon wheezed between clenched teeth.

Legolas frowned. He did not like the idea of leaving Lícumon alone and vulnerable. The scent of blood could attract predators before Legolas was able to return, and Lícumon was in no shape to defend himself. Yet, there was little Legolas could do if he stayed.

Shifting onto his knees, he drew one of his twin daggers and began digging at the earth around the anchor. If he could get it out, then perhaps he could carry Lícumon…though Legolas also knew that each step would be agony with the dangling chain pulling on the wounds. He gave up on that course with a frustrated growl, and leaned down to examine the hinges. Maybe he could work a bolt loose…

At the sound of a twig snapping, Legolas whipped his head up, flipping the hilt of his dagger around to a fighting hold. A young human male who’d stepped out from behind a tree several feet away threw his hands up, palms outward.

“Sorry, friend,” he called out. “I did not mean to startle you. My companions and I heard screams and thought to help.” His gaze flicked to Lícumon on the ground. “Do you need aid?”

Legolas tensed as a rustling of branches preceded three more men emerging from behind a large copse. They all appeared slightly older than the human who had spoken, faces weathered and grizzled. One was rather large, a seven-foot-two brute with mountainous shoulders and bulging muscles. For a moment, Legolas imagined he would be able to pry this death-trap apart…but then, it was likely these men were the poachers who’d set the trap in the first place.

The younger man took a tentative step forward, hands still raised. His black hair was shorter than his companions’, curling around the nape of his neck and ears, and the scruffiness on his face looked more like dirt than a beard.

“Uh, I’m afraid I don’t know your tongue.” He gestured to Lícumon, then to himself, lifting his brows in question.

Legolas slowly rose to his feet. “I understand yours just fine,” he said in Westron.

The young man’s eyes widened. “Well then, that makes things easier.” He stretched on his toes and let out a low whistle. “That looks bad. Need help?”

Legolas’s fingers tightened around his knife, his instincts wishing he could switch to his bow. “That depends…were you the ones who set the trap?”

“We don’t hunt game in this forest,” the _adan_ said hurriedly, perhaps worried how the elves might react to such activities. “We were passing through from Dale, hoping to find trade in other parts.” He took another step closer, and Legolas didn’t know whether to find it brave or threatening. “Name’s Cain. May we help?”

Legolas glanced back at Lícumon, whose face was pinched red with pain and frustration at being unable to get up. He was also shaking more noticeably. Legolas was wary of the men, but at the moment he did need their help. Reluctantly sheathing his knife, he nodded to Cain, who then gestured to the big guy.

“Fezzick.”

Legolas stood protectively over Lícumon as both men approached. Cain knelt down on Lícumon’s other side while ‘Fezzick’ squatted at his feet.

“Uh, you may want to hold him down,” Cain suggested, one hand hovering as though he were ready to oblige, but uncertain whether it’d be wanted.

Legolas slowly lowered himself as the large man put meaty hands on either side of the iron jaws. “Hold on, _mellon_ ,” he whispered to Lícumon.

The other elf’s eyes were wide and fearful, flitting between the strange men and the one about to yank a bunch of jagged metal from his leg. Legolas placed one arm across his chest and nodded that they were ready. Fezzick began to pull, face screwing up with effort. The rusted hinges squeaked, a sound soon drowned out by Lícumon’s scream. Legolas thrust down hard, keeping his bucking friend pinned to the ground. As soon as the teeth were far enough apart, Cain moved in and removed the leg. The other man let go of the trap, and the two ends snapped together with a crack.

Lícumon was panting heavily, pallor two shades whiter than it’d been a moment ago. Legolas quickly straightened off of him, gaze whipping to the bloodied leg and glints of bone shards now showing through tattered skin. It would not be easy to get him home, but at least he was out of that accursed contraption.

Legolas looked at Cain to begrudgingly thank him, for the prince still was not convinced these men weren’t poachers, when Fezzick suddenly moved sideways and body slammed him to the ground. The air was punched from his lungs, and he heard Lícumon shout in surprised outrage.

Legolas tried to push the giant off, but the man straddled him easily, beefy hands enclosing Legolas’s wrists and holding him down. One of the other men appeared and pressed a piece of cloth over his mouth and nose. A sickly sweet odor suffused through his nostrils, and Legolas’s eyes flew wide. He began to struggle harder, but his desperate kicks only served to strike Lícumon, who couldn’t help but cry out in agony. He strained against his attackers, arms bruising from Fezzick’s vice-like fingers.

“More,” Cain ordered.

The cloth was removed, and Legolas gasped in a breath, even as his vision swam and he began to feel muddled. It was replaced with another just as quickly, this one soaked with the same substance that Legolas couldn’t identify, but with each inhalation of vapor, a dark haze encroached on his consciousness and he felt his struggles lessening. He vaguely heard Lícumon shouting curses and threats in Sindarin and Silvan, but they grew far away—until they silenced completely. Legolas dropped his head back against the earth. Fezzick’s blurred face loomed over him, the last thing he saw before darkness claimed him.

* * *

 

Radagast stood in the middle of a hazel thicket, eyes closed and mouth moving almost imperceptibly under his tawny beard. A moment later they snapped open, and he picked up a gnarled bough discarded from a rotted tree. Taking three long strides to the right, he then rammed the end of the branch straight down into a clump of mulch. There was a metallic click and a pair of rusted iron jaws sprung up to snap the porous wood in two. Radagast tossed the bough aside and grumbled at the inhumane trap. He had been roaming northern Mirkwood for several weeks now trying to track down the despicable souls who set them in the first place.

It was strange; the poachers had started their campaign further south where the Brown Wizard’s tender ministrations kept Greenwood flourishing, and thus was where more game could be caught. Radagast did not oppose hunting as a man’s means of livelihood, but _this_ method burned his soul with livid fire. He’d found a deer trapped in one, leg broken and mangled and unable to escape. It had been stuck for two whole days, and even Radagast’s gentle magic could not save its spirit, and so he ended the poor creature’s suffering. He’d begun a crusade then, to dismantle every single trap within the Woodland Realm, and to find those responsible.

When the as yet uncaught humans started moving north, the wizard had wondered if his efforts were desperately driving them to deeper and darker parts of the forest. But then the poachers were setting traps along the Elf Path, which was odd, and decidedly more dangerous if the elves were to catch them. Yet as time went on and these men were not spotted, Radagast began to suspect that something more sinister was at work here. For how could mere men evade both an Istar and elves for so long?

Muttering under his breath, Radagast tapped his staff to the bolted anchor, and in a spark of light, it exploded out of the ground in a shower of dirt. The wizard bent down and picked up the chain, slinging it over his shoulder to lug around with the other two traps he’d already dismantled. He refused to bring his Rhosgobel rabbits and sleigh whilst hunting for the deadly devices, even if his back ached from the heavy load. Plus, he relished the opportunity to throw the iron jaws at the poachers once he finally caught up to them.

Radagast began humming as he waded through the forest and back to where he’d left his sled. He’d had a rather productive morning and afternoon, even if his true targets continued to remain elusive. A gravid silence filled the air then, and the wizard’s tune cut off abruptly. Something was wrong. There was a poignant sadness permeating through the trees…one that whispered of death.

Radagast quickened his pace, following the resonation until he barreled past an elderberry bush and skidded to a stop, the coppery scent of blood assaulting his senses. Ten feet away lay a body, dressed in the muted green and brown of a Mirkwood elf, a curtain of dark hair fanning out from the still head. Radagast slid the chains off his shoulder to clunk on the ground, and then cautiously approached.

It was an elf, brown eyes wide open and gazing sightlessly up at the mesh of leaves and branches. His leg was a shattered mess of bone and sinew, and Radagast clenched a fist at the iron trap lying next to the poor elf. But that was not what had killed him. A dark stain spread across his tunic from what appeared to be a stab wound to the chest, and a thin trail of blood had trickled out the corner of his mouth.

Radagast furrowed his brow at the scene. The elf had gotten his leg free of the trap...certainly not by himself. But why would someone go to the trouble of releasing him just to kill him? The wizard swept his gaze across the ground. He was by no means a skilled tracker, could not read scuff marks or days’ old prints in the soil, but he did notice the discarded bow and quiver four feet from the slain elf. Too far to have belonged to the fellow. So where was this other elf?

A small yip drew his attention, and Radagast glanced to the side as a tiny fennec fox slunk out from under a bush, tail tucked nervously between his legs. The wizard crouched down. “Don’t be afraid, little tyke.”

The fox flicked a look at the inert trap, and then scampered into Radagast’s waiting arms. He let out a tremulous bark, and Radagast canted his head to give the animal his ear. His brows shot up. “Men captured an elf?”

The fox whined and pawed at the Istar’s robe.

Radagast felt his blood begin to boil. “They set the trap and then returned when an elf was caught.” In truth, with how the poachers had been laying out their traps, it was a wonder an elf had not been accidentally caught in one before. Or…was it not an accident? An elf had been taken, after all.

Radagast lifted the two-pound fox up in one hand to look him straight in the eye. “Do you know which way they went?”

His bushy tail curled under and his large oval ears flattened back against his head, but he gave a small growl of affirmation.

“Then we will follow.” Radagast set the fox on the ground and stood up, only to cast a remorseful look at the slain elf; he did not deserve to be left like that. Yet time was also of the essence. Radagast shuffled toward the nearest large tree and laid a hand upon its trunk. The bark was coarse and thick, pulsing with a deep, baritone rhythm. _I would ask you to take this creature of light,_ the wizard implored. _House his body in the roots of his home while his spirit makes its way to the Halls of Mandos_.

It took a moment, but then the tree groaned and creaked, and the earth began sifting like silt as centuries’ old roots worked their way up to wrap around the poor elf and carry him under.

_Thank you_. Radagast bowed his head, and then spoke to the mound of roots now shielding the elf’s body from the elements and carrion predators. “I have not the time now, but you will not remain nameless.” With that, he turned to scoop up the abandoned weapons, sure they would come in handy, at least to the one he intended to rescue, and paused at the silver filigree etched into the bow. His eye caught two ivory handles also tucked in the quiver, gold inlay curling into a short series of runes.

Radagast’s heart stuttered. He recognized that name. Whirling back to the fox, the wizard urgently demanded a description of the elf that had been taken. Blond hair, blue eyes…now that his fear was confirmed, a new feeling of dread began unfurling in his stomach. Why had poachers sought to capture an elf? And had they intended to snag the Prince of Mirkwood, or had it been chance? Either way, this was a grave situation indeed. One the Brown Wizard might need assistance on. He could not waste valuable time making for the palace to inform them of what had happened; no, he had to follow this trail now. But there was another he could contact quickly, one who cared deeply for the Mirkwood Prince and would want to come. Radagast just hoped Gandalf was not far, or that he could secure swift transportation of some kind.

Closing his eyes, Radagast began to chant, low half-mumbled words that droned monotonously in the silent forest. As he sank into the communicative trance, the trees and woodland faded away, leaving only a blank mental landscape and a gleam of light on the horizon. Radagast reached for that spark, sending his message across the expanse.

His eyes snapped open once he’d finished, and he glanced down at the fox. “Come, my friend, we must make haste!” Lifting his staff in a mimicked charge, Radagast bolted in the direction the poachers had gone, the fox giving a small yelp before bounding ahead to lead the way.


	2. A Missing Prince

“It was _my_ shot.”

“You were taking too long.”

“There are no time constraints when one is perfecting an _art_.”

A snort was the wordless response.

Gandalf rolled his eyes, harrumphing under his breath. Why had he agreed to share a camp with those two? It had initially been a pleasant surprise when the wizard first crossed the sons of Elrond on the road, the two journeying back from visiting their grandparents in Lorien. Now, however, Gandalf was beginning to rue that ‘good fortune.’

“I know an archer who could have made that shot in less than _half_ the time it took you to simply take aim.”

“Well _he_ is not here. And even if he were, that does not excuse the fact that _you_ cheated. Didn’t he Gandalf?”

The Grey Wizard looked up, blinking at the identical faces of two raven-haired elves, both standing with arms crossed in front of their chests. From a distance, one could mistakenly assume that a mirror had been erected in the middle of the field. The only difference being that Elrohir held a red apple with a hole through the middle in one hand.

The younger twin scoffed. “I shot the apple; therefore it’s mine.”

“I would have hit it if you had not fired out of turn,” Elladan argued, snatching the fruit from Elrohir.

“Gandalf, please remind my brother that archery is a battle skill in which speed must be just as refined as accuracy.”

“If you wanted to test speed, you should have set those terms to begin with,” Elladan retorted. “Gandalf, you are an objective outside observer; tell us who the apple rightfully belongs to.”

Gandalf walked over to the twins, plucked the apple from Elladan’s hand, and then strode over to sit on a stump where he proceeded to take a large crispy bite of the shiny red fruit. A little bit of juice dribbled down his beard.

Neither Peredhil spoke for a long moment. “Well,” Elladan said at last. “We can now include Mithrandir on the list of folk _not_ to leave in charge of negotiating truces.”

“Like Glorfindel,” Elrohir agreed. “He’s more likely to threaten both parties with his sword, while Gandalf will just take the debated prize and run.”

The wizard arched an indignant brow. It was astonishing how quickly those two could go from bickering to complete amiable agreement. Gandalf pitied Lord Elrond for Eru having blessed—or cursed—him with twins. He was about to launch into a tirade against the Peredhil, when a ping in the back of his mind whisked his steam away. His gaze went distant, the vista of the Gladden Fields dimming as Gandalf’s eye turned inward.

The communication was from Radagast, a short, hastily fired burst of information reminiscent of a frazzled squirrel’s chattering. Gandalf would have chuckled, if not for the content of the message.

“Mithrandir? Mithrandir, are you all right?”

Gandalf blinked to find Elladan kneeling before him, Elrohir at his shoulder. Both were frowning with concern.

“What happened, Gandalf?” Elladan asked with the patient tone of a healer addressing a disoriented patient. He’d inherited that from his father.

The wizard pushed himself to his feet, dropping the half-eaten apple on the ground. “I just received a grave message from Radagast the Brown. Legolas of Mirkwood has been taken captive.”

“What?” Elrohir exclaimed. “By whom?”

“Men, it seems, though the reason is unclear. I must make for Mirkwood.” He hobbled over to retrieve his staff from the tree he’d leaned it against. Radagast had not given many details, only that the party had been heading south of the Elf Path. It would take Gandalf three days to get there, in which time a lot could happen. But a live hostage certainly boded better than an outright assassination.

“We will come with you,” Elladan declared as Elrohir sprinted the few yards to where the twins’ horses were grazing.

Leaning on his staff, Gandalf gave the Peredhil a grateful nod. Traveling by horse would get him there that much faster. And of course, Elladan and Elrohir would never not act on such news; they were friends with Legolas as well.

Elrohir guided the horses over, angling his to the side so Gandalf could mount. Elladan gave the wizard a quick boost, and then swung up onto his own horse. Reaching down to clasp his brother’s arm, he pulled Elrohir up behind him.

“ _Noro lim_ ,” Elladan said, bidding the steeds to run fast.

Gandalf tightened his knees around the horse’s side as it spurred into a gallop, and then the three were racing east across the Gladden Fields toward the great forest looming on the horizon. Gandalf hoped they would arrive in time.

* * *

 

Cain stood at the base of a tree, scowling up at the thick canopy. How had the blasted elf been able to climb with both hands _and_ feet bound? One moment he’d been slung unconsciously over Fezzick’s shoulder, and the next he’d apparently rolled off and leaped into the nearest tree. At least he hadn’t gone far; Cain could make out bits of blond hair through the dark foliage. They just had to figure out how to get him _down_.

“I swear, the thing moved!” Joran insisted.

Cain had to bite back a scathing retort. “Trees do not _move_.”

“They do if it’s elf magic.”

“Only great elves have magic,” Cain replied. “And those kind don’t go wandering around the forest.”

Joran drew his shoulders back, red beard bristling. “And how would you know? There’s somethin’ unearthly about all of ‘em.”

“Because Mornince said so.”

Travers snorted. “Yeah, and it ain’t like she don’t use magic.”

Cain spun around and shoved the older man, making him stumble back a step. “You don’t like it, you can start walking right now. Right back to the barren farmlands and drought. _I_ found a way to take care of us. So either get lost or help think of a solution.”

Travers didn’t respond, just glowered and ducked his gaze. Sneering in frustration, Cain turned back to evaluate the tree. They should have taken the elf who’d been caught in the trap instead. At least _that one_ wouldn’t have been able to stand, let alone climb. But Cain had thought Mornince would prefer an uninjured elf, since she had emphasized the importance of it being alive. This creature was proving not worth the trouble though. If it weren’t for the fact that they were close to the cave, Cain would have kept their catch drugged, as they had done for the past couple days to make it easier to travel. But he figured Mornince would want to speak to the captive, and so had allowed the last dose to completely wear off. His mistake.

“Where do you plan to go?” Cain called up to the elf, not sure whether him understanding their language was beneficial or not. It meant they couldn’t discuss anything in secret, but it also made communicating easier. Cain waited a beat. “If you don’t come down on your own, we’ll do it by force.”

Something groaned and creaked then, and the leaves above rustled, though Cain didn’t feel a breeze. Each of his men took wary steps back.

“See, I _told_ you,” Joran hissed.

Cain frowned. He’d heard tales of elves being attuned to trees, so maybe there was something to the superstition. But this one obviously didn’t have any active magic, or he would have used it by now. When there was still no response, Cain shook his head.

“Fine. Fezzick, smash it.”

The unusually large man looked about his feet before picking up a rock two feet wide and three feet thick. Planting his feet apart for balance, he inhaled deeply and lobbed the boulder at the center of the tree trunk. A great crack rent the air as bark splintered. The earlier groan almost seemed to turn to a whistle as the tree shook and swayed…more so than an impact would cause. Cain eyed it warily, but through the gaps in the branches he could see the elf trying to hold on to a branch.

“Bring it down,” Cain commanded.

Fezzick walked up to the tree and grabbed one of its lower branches. The giant brute began pulling on it, splintering more wood and causing the boughs above to thrash more violently. Cain just counted themselves lucky the elf had perched in a smaller tree, and not some ancient oak. Fezzick gave the tree another rough yank, and a moment later the elf came tumbling down in a shower of leaves. He landed on his back with a hard thud, which obviously winded him, giving Travers and Joran time to rush in and restrain him. Still, the moment their hands grabbed the elf’s shoulders and legs, he began to struggle. Travers backhanded him across the face.

Cain strode over and knelt down, grasping a fistful of hair and wrenching the elf’s head back. Blue eyes blazed up at him with fury and not an inkling of fear. “We’d intended to take an elf caught in one of our traps, so if you don’t settle, I will rectify that right here and now.” He thrust his chin toward the gear they’d dropped when they were forced to stop, and the two iron traps they had in reserve.

The elf’s chest continued to heave for several moments before he finally calmed. Cain was not foolish enough to think it was in true submission. The annoying creature was probably just biding his time until he could escape again.

“Give me more rope,” Cain instructed.

Fezzick unwound a few pieces from their cargo, and Cain tied one end first to the bonds on the elf’s wrists, then the other end around his ankles, leaving just enough slack for him to stand up straight. Let him try jumping into a tree like that. He also wound a second line over the elf’s hands to prevent him from using his fingers.

“Why?” their captive finally spoke, voice a little soft from lack of water and what was probably a cotton-filled mouth from the ether he’d been dosed with. “What do you want with a wounded elf?”

Cain moved back and gestured for Travers and Joran to haul the elf to his feet. “I said I was willing to take one that way, not that it was the goal.”

A muscle in the elf’s jaw ticked, and Cain had no doubt that if he were to get free, he’d cut them all down without hesitation. “For what purpose?”

“That’s for the one who hired us to say.”

The elf’s eyes narrowed, and then his gaze drifted up and over Cain’s shoulder, expression for once going slack from something other than unconsciousness. “We are close to the mountains,” he breathed in surprise, and Cain saw as realization dawned on how he must have been with them for at least three days to have traveled this far. “You left Lícumon. He’ll die out there with that injury!”

Travers gave their prisoner a rough shake when he started to struggle again. Cain held back a sigh.

“Slowly, yes, but I fixed that. Made sure it was quick.”

The elf blinked at him, and then it was like a torrent of rage erupted in his eyes. He swung his bound legs up to kick Cain in the gut, upending his own and Travers’s balance in the process. Cain stumbled back with an ‘oof’ as the other two hit the ground. Joran and Fezzick rushed in as the elf twisted and spat a string of elvish phrases. Cain didn’t understand the language, but it sure sounded vitriolic. The trees around them began creaking again, and _that_ was just a little too unnerving, even for him.

Holding his stomach, he staggered for his pack and retrieved a bandana. The others had the elf restrained again, and his movements were gradually lessening, probably due to Fezzick’s large hand clamped around his throat. Cain shoved the cloth in the elf’s mouth and tied the gag around the back of his head. He then crouched there and stared into those glacier eyes as the elf fought for breath. Only when his eyelids started to flutter did Cain tell Fezzick to ease up.

“Let’s go,” he snapped impatiently. He wanted to get this over with.

Fezzick slung the elf over his shoulder again as the rest of them scooped up their gear, and then they resumed their trek toward the mountains. The cave was only five minutes away. Cain followed the small trail carved through the thickening foliage until the trees parted at the base of the mountains. The mouth of the cave was hidden by a warped oak bent over in an arc, branches spilling across the ground like limp tresses. Fezzick had to practically crawl through on his knees, and still managed to get a few scratches. The cave was dark, but the moment the men set foot inside, a torch ensconced in the wall burst into flame. Cain rolled his neck, discomfited that he seemed to be getting used to such displays of sorcery.

The ceiling was low, so Fezzick had to put the elf down in order to walk forward hunched over. Cain cut the rope around the elf’s ankles, and then shoved him forward. The elf craned his neck a few times back toward the exit and halo of daylight, which was quickly blocked by Fezzick’s bulky frame.

Nine feet into the tunnel, the walls curved out and up into a more spacious cavern. Though it didn’t look like a cave anymore. Tiered wooden shelves stood along the left wall and sectioned off the rear area from the deeper part of the mountain. Ceramic bowls and glass jars full of viscous fluids or animal parts lined the shelves. The space to the right had a stone ring with a cauldron over a simmering fire, and a haze of smoke lingered in the air, though most of it seemed to be escaping through a natural flue in the cave’s structure. Bundles of dried herbs hung from crooks in the walls and ceiling. In the center of the cavern was a long, rectangular stone altar.

The men drew to a stop, Fezzick holding the elf by the back of his tunic. Shrewd blue eyes flitted around the place. Cain didn’t announce their presence; he figured Mornince already knew they were there. Sure enough, a woman stepped around the back shelf unit and stalked toward them. A long black dress hugged her form and rippled about her feet like a mantle of oil, and she wore a sable scarf wrapped around her head. Only a single lock of dark brown hair peeked out from the side.

“Well,” she spoke. “You have finally delivered.”

“It wasn’t easy,” Cain put in.

Mornince walked up to the elf and placed a gentle hand on his cheek. He tried to jerk away, but Fezzick’s hold was unyielding. Mornince stroked a finger down the gag and around the swelling from where Travers had hit him.

“I can see that. A fighter, this one.”

The elf pulled his shoulders back, skewering her with that same arrogant defiance. Mornince’s brow creased, and then she lashed out to grab the elf’s chin, leaning forward until their faces were a mere inch apart. Cain exchanged awkward glances with his men.

“I know those eyes,” Mornince hissed, and pushed away. The elf squinted in confusion. The woman stepped back, and now a small smile crept across her face. “You are of Oropher’s line.”

The elf shifted nervously. Cain didn’t know who Oropher was, nor did he care.

“So, will he do?”

Mornince grinned. “Oh, he will do perfectly. You have no idea who you’ve caught, do you?”

Cain folded his arms across his chest. “Should we?”

She laughed, and something about the sound sent a shiver down his spine. “This is the Prince of Mirkwood.”

Cain’s jaw went slack, and he heard Travers and Joran murmur something to each other. He angled a scrutinizing look at their prize again, and yes, now the proud, indomitable bearing made sense. And he was now glad he had not left that other elf alive to tell the tale.

Mornince went to a small table where several vials, a bowl, and pestle were laid out. “Oh, this will be poetic indeed. I could have used any elf to bring about the end of the Mirkwood elves, but Thranduil’s son himself will be the ultimate blow!”

The elf prince began to struggle, muffled sounds trying to work past the gag in his mouth.

“Put him on the stone table,” Mornince instructed.

He began to thrash in earnest, but the men simply moved forward, Travers and Joran grabbing his legs while Fezzick held his shoulders and he was hefted onto the altar. They had to throw their body weight across him to keep him there though.

Mornince sprinkled a few dried herbs into the bowl and mixed it, then brought it over to the prisoner. “You have your grandfather’s eyes,” she crooned. “Something your father did not inherit.”

The elf looked truly panicked now, and Cain could only watch in rapt fascination as Mornince began to recite an incantation in a language he did not recognize. The elf prince might have, because he grunted through the gag and bucked harder. Mornince dipped two fingers into the bowl, and they came out dripping with a thick, viscid black goop. Hovering them over the elf’s forehead, she began to trace a pattern in the air. Cain was surprised the unguent didn’t plop on the prince, but then he noticed how the substance was _floating_ , held aloft as Mornince’s fingers wove a sticky spider web above the elf.

The chanting grew louder, more forceful, and the inky web descended to alight on the prince’s brow. From there, it shimmered and sank into his skin, disappearing as though it had been an illusion. The elf’s eyelids slid closed, head lolling limply to the side. Mornince stepped away to discard the bowl. Cain’s men cautiously eased off the unconscious elf, giving each other disquieted glances.

Cain cleared his throat. “What did you do?”

“I set a curse in motion that will not stop until every elf in Mirkwood has fallen prey to it. Now, take him back.”

Each of the men froze at that. “Take him back where?” Cain asked slowly.

“To his people,” Mornince replied with a touch of impatience.

“Are you mad?” Travers blurted. “We’ll be slaughtered!”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Tell them you found the elf injured and were bringing him back. They won’t be able to prove you wrong.”

“Perhaps if this was just an ordinary elf, but you said it’s the son of the king! They won’t wait for justification before imprisoning us!”

Cain tensed. He knew underneath the woman’s calm exterior was a coiled cobra, one not lightly confronted. Yet, he also was not thrilled with this change in plans. He flicked a look toward Fezzick, but the mute giant merely shrugged one shoulder as though it didn’t matter much to him. But then, he always followed Cain no matter what.

Mornince turned flinty eyes on Travers. “Even if they decide to imprison you until the prince wakes to tell them the truth, you won’t be there long. I told you, the Woodland Realm will fall to me, but the only way that is going to happen is if you take him back.”

“We can’t exactly show up with him trussed up like that,” Cain tried to point out reasonably.

“So untie him,” she snapped, huffing in annoyance. “He’s not going to wake up and give you trouble.” The corner of her mouth curved upward. “He’s not going to wake up at all.”


	3. Lost and Found

Elladan clucked his tongue, coaxing his horse over the exposed roots and rampant underbrush that was making traveling through Mirkwood slow and difficult. More than once since coming to this dark forest, he wondered if it would have been better to set the horses free at the border. But it would have been just as hard for the animals to find their way home over the mountain pass, and Elrohir had been loathe to part with the faithful steeds. Still, the elves’ love for their horses was currently warring with a dire sense of urgency. Legolas was out there somewhere, and Ilúvatar knew what he was enduring.

Elladan’s horse nickered and kicked to dislodge a clump of ivy that had caught his back hoof. The animal’s pupils were wide and rolling about in growing unease the deeper they ventured into Mirkwood. Elladan did not blame him; the woods were much darker since the last time he’d entered, only a few decades ago. A heavy malevolence hung in the air, sinister susurrations whispering through the trees. Shadows swayed as though they were live entities writhing like worms under bushes and shrubs. Even though the Shadow of Sauron no longer dwelt in the southern fortress of Dol Guldur, it seemed his influence had seeped into the very soil, so that now any new growth was tough and fibrous, with thorns instead of blossoms, and the aged trees that had once been glorious in their beauty had begun to bow under the weight of rot and decay.

Elrohir whispered soothing phrases in his horse’s ear, keeping one comforting hand on the animal’s neck as he guided the lead to follow Gandalf. Elladan did not know how the wizard determined the path they needed to take in their search for Legolas, but he did not question it. Gandalf pushed through brush and around copses with a single-minded purpose, stopping only occasionally to close his eyes and mutter some litany under his breath. He always adjusted their course after that, and though Elladan could not understand the Istar’s methods, he held onto hope that they were drawing nearer to their quarry.

His horse’s ears flicked back at the same moment Elladan heard rustling leaves and cracking twigs off to their left. He unsheathed his sword and held it at the ready, keen eyes trying to pierce the dense foliage. Something was approaching them, and at a great pace.

Gandalf gripped his staff in both hands, tense as well, while Elrohir silently retrieved his bow from his horse’s saddle and nocked an arrow. A flash of dull brown between trees was the only glimpse Elladan caught before the stranger barreled into their midst and pulled up short, huffing from exertion. The first thing Elladan noticed was the familiar bow and quiver on the stranger’s shoulder, and he was about to leap forward and attack when Gandalf let out a relieved sound.

“Radagast.”

Elladan quickly checked himself. He had never met the Brown Wizard, but the elderly man with a bushy beard and wide-brimmed hat certainly fit the image. Gandalf strode over and clasped his fellow Istar’s shoulder, eyes briefly noting the elvish weapons as well. “Any news?”

Radagast straightened. “I’ve been following the trail for three days, and they have made a straight line for the Mountains of Mirkwood.”

Gandalf frowned. “And these are men, you say? Strange destination.”

“Aye.” The Brown Wizard glanced at the twins, who promptly put away their weapons.

“This is Elladan and Elrohir,” Gandalf introduced. “The sons of Elrond and friends to Legolas. They were with me when I received your message.”

“Ah, good, good,” Radagast bobbed his head.

“Have you any idea if Legolas was hurt?” Elrohir spoke up. Like Elladan, he probably figured that it would have been a great struggle to subdue the prince.

“There has been no blood on the trail,” Radagast replied, and a wave of sadness washed over him. “I believe he may have been taken by surprise—another elf had been caught in a vicious trap where the abduction took place. That one…did not make it.”

A pang pierced Elladan’s heart at the news. Death for elves was not something taken lightly.

“Also, I found this at one of the poachers’ campsites.” Radagast pulled out a wadded up handkerchief and held it up to Gandalf’s nose.

The Grey Wizard took one whiff before jerking his head away. “It takes a lot of technique and time to distill ether from plants.”

Elladan’s brows shot up, and he strode forward to take a sniff himself. The sickly sweet odor was faint, but present, which meant it had been used sooner than three days ago for it not to have evaporated completely. Shock and anger exploded in his chest. “They are keeping him drugged.”

“For the journey, it seems. But if the mountains were their final destination, they would have reached it by now,” Radagast said, and shook his head. “I’m glad you’re here, Gandalf. I had not the time to head north to the palace. I’m sure they know he’s missing by now, but would have no idea where to look.”

“Unless a ransom was sent,” Elrohir said, voice rough with growing emotion.

Radagast shrugged, and then whirled around as the bush at his feet suddenly swished, and a small fox hopped out. The Brown Wizard crouched down and let the creature jump into his arms, to which Elladan and Elrohir exchanged bemused glances. Radagast held the creature up to his ear, eyes flying wide.

“They are near!”

Elladan shot Gandalf a dubious look, but the Grey Wizard seemed to have no qualms about taking the word of a fox, for he turned on his heel to quickly follow Radagast. Drawing his sword once more, Elladan hurried after them. He heard Elrohir instruct the horses to wait before sprinting forward as well. The two elves swiftly gained on the hobbling wizards, and a minute later the four of them came to an abrupt stop as they found themselves face to face with a group of four humans. At least, Elladan counted only four, though one was the size of a good three combined. But then his eyes latched onto the limp, blond-haired elf cradled in the giant’s arms.

“Fiends!” Elrohir snarled beside him, taking aim with his bow. “Release him.”

For a moment, the men looked just as bewildered, but then the smallest put his hands up warily. “Ah, is he a friend of yours? Please, we mean no harm. We found him in the woods, injured, and were just bringing him north to the elves’ domain.”

Elladan frowned at this strange turn of events. He swept his gaze across Legolas, eyes narrowing at the bruising on his face and the obvious rope abrasions on his hands. But he was not tied up now. Perhaps these men had drugged him again.

“Is that so?” Gandalf harrumphed doubtfully.

The young man and apparent leader gestured slowly to the giant, who squatted awkwardly and laid his bundle gently on the ground.

“We will leave him in your care,” the _adan_ spoke again, beckoning for his men to take a slow, measured step back.

Elrohir’s bowstring remained taut, and Elladan placed a cautioning hand on his brother’s arm. Something was strange here. If these men did not intend to fight for Legolas, were they not the kidnappers then? The leader appeared calm, but the other two of normal size were fidgeting nervously. The giant remained almost impassive.

“Who are you and what is your business in these parts?” Elladan asked sharply.

“We were traveling through the forest on our way from Dale,” the man replied, then shook his head ruefully. “We were warned not to stray from the road, but our first night here we became lost. Actually, coming upon this elf was good fortune for us both, for he was able to tell us the direction back to the Elvenking’s realm. Going back was out of our way, but it was the right thing to do. Though, now that you’re here, we can resume our journey west.”

Elladan flicked an uncertain glance at the wizards. Their tale sounded almost plausible, but for the fact he knew Legolas had been taken by men. But then why would they insist on letting the prince go now? Elladan jerked his attention back to Legolas, breath catching in alarm until he noticed the steady rise and fall of the elf’s chest. So he was not dead. But then what was the game here?

Gandalf took a step forward, leaning on his staff so as to appear unthreatening, but Elladan knew better. “We…thank you, for your intent to deliver him safely home.”

The man bowed his head. “Just common decency.”

Elrohir’s aim lowered a fraction, and Elladan removed his hand. He wanted to get to Legolas’s side, but no one seemed ready to make any sudden movements. Except for the fox, who at that moment scampered up Radagast’s shoulder and onto his hat where it began barking furiously at the men. Elladan was stunned, as were the humans, by the quirked expressions on their faces.

Radagast drew himself up and brandished his staff like a weapon. “They’re lying, Gandalf! They took him to begin with!”

Elladan surged forward, not even hesitating at the fact he was acting on the word of a fox. The men were only a few feet from Legolas, but Elladan was standing over his friend in the next instant, sword raised and ready to defend him.

Elrohir had his bow up again. “Do not move!”

“No, wait…” the young man sputtered, but two of his companions drew their weapons. The red-headed one had a sword, the taller man an axe. They charged at Elladan, who swung his sword to block the nearest blade. An arrow whistled through the air, thudding into the axe-man’s shoulder. He cried out as he fell. Elladan’s blade grated along the red-head’s sword, and he shoved his weight forward to knock the slighter figure backward.

The giant among them threw his head back and let out a deep, throaty roar before he swung his arm like a club. The beefy appendage struck Elladan in the side and sent him flying. He hit the ground hard, and would have rolled into a crouch were it not for the dense underbrush that tangled around him. Flailing to get out from the creepers, he saw Gandalf and Radagast leap into the fray with their staffs. The resounding thwacks of wood striking flesh reverberated on the air, but seemed to do little against the brute. The giant grabbed the end of Gandalf’s staff and flung the Grey Wizard aside. Mithrandir crashed into a tree with a pained ‘oomph’.

Elrohir loosed an arrow that embedded in the hulk’s chest, but did not pierce the bulging muscles deep enough to slow him down. Scooping up his sword once more, Elladan lunged forward, determined to protect Legolas from being trampled. He almost lost his concentration when he spotted the tiny fox biting at the prince’s collar and trying to pull him away. The full-grown elf was too heavy, of course.

The other men were on their feet again, brandishing their blades against the Brown Wizard. An arrow whizzed past Elladan’s ear to strike the red-head in the center of his chest. Elladan let is brother focus on those more vulnerable to arrows while he turned his sword on the rampaging giant.

Darting around the brute’s side, Elladan attempted to draw his attention away from where Legolas lay helpless. He ducked under another thick arm and sliced his sword along the inside of the giant’s thigh. The man bellowed in pain, that leg buckling and bringing him down just a little closer for Elladan’s reach. The lithe elf pivoted away, only to swing back around and leap into the air, sword angled toward the ground. He hit the giant full in the chest, blade thrusting down between big-boned ribs and into the heart. The brute’s eyes flew wide in shock and then confusion, before they rolled back in his head and he toppled sideways.

Elladan abandoned his sword and leaped off, landing on the ground in a half-crouch and whipping out his knife in preparation for another attack. The earth shook slightly with the hulking man’s collapse. Elladan swept his gaze around, noting the two men slain by arrows and the wizards dusting themselves off. He rose slowly, the silence of a battle ending ringing in his ears. Then he darted toward Legolas.

The fox gave a startled yip and zoomed under a nearby bush as Elladan dropped to his knees beside the prince, whose closed eyes and still form sent his heart rate spiking. He reached out two fingers to Legolas’s neck, but before he could check the pulse, something cold slapped his skin. Elladan jerked back, catching a glimpse of a small black tendril snaking around the back of his hand. He gave his hand a sharp shake and swatted it, but the spider or whatever was gone.

Elrohir appeared at his side. “The last one fled,” he said, and there was brimming ire under the surface of that tone.

“Leave him,” Gandalf commanded, staggering forward. “How is Legolas?”

Elladan frowned, taking in the lack of serious injury and checking Legolas’s pulse again. It was slow, yet steady. “I do not know. Perhaps they drugged him again.”

“We should get him home,” Gandalf said. “Elrohir, fetch the horses.”

Elrohir looked reluctant to let the remaining man get away, but Legolas’s condition demanded priority. With a nod, he went to retrieve the horses.

“I will come with you to the palace,” Radagast said. “Thranduil will want to hear the full story, and there is an elf who needs to be identified.”

Gandalf nodded, and began discussing with the Brown Wizard the safest route north, for Radagast had traveled these parts more thoroughly than the rest of them, save the one lying unconscious at their feet.

Elladan laid a hand on Legolas’s brow, whispering a prayer to Ilúvatar that the prince would be all right.

* * *

Cain clenched and unclenched his fists, watching the dispassionate look on Mornince’s face as he reported what happened. He could still see that raven-haired elf flying through the air like some ethereal devil and plunging his sword into Fezzick’s chest. Even in death, the giant had not uttered a word. Cain had fled then, back to the cave and the sorceress’s protection. But if he had hoped for sympathy, or perhaps rage on his behalf…well, he was sorely mistaken.

“They were taking him back to the Elvenking’s halls, weren’t they?” Mornince asked sharply.

Cain gritted his teeth. “Yes.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Then the plan is still in place.”

“My men are _dead_. Fezzick is _dead_.” That was the blow that hurt the most. Despite the giant’s size, he had been more of a gentle soul, one preferring guidance rather than acting on his own. Cain had taken it upon himself to look after the brute. Joran and Travers, too, though their deaths didn’t sting as bad. Those fools had acted rashly when Cain _had_ the situation under control!

“All the more reward for you,” Mornince replied blithely, and turned away to sort through her various vials.

Cain flexed his hands into fists again, and it took a great deal of willpower not to explode at the woman. But he was no fool—lissome and delicate she may have appeared, but he would be no match against her magic.

“Somehow the old man _knew_ ,” he seethed, neglecting to mention the ridiculous fox perched atop the geezer’s hat and yipping manically. “How could he know who we were? The others were ready to believe my cover story.”

Mornince stilled, eyes narrowing as she looked back at him. “What old man?”

Cain crossed his arms, if only to keep the urge to strike something tamped down. “There were two of them. One wore a brown robe, the other grey.”

Mornince stormed around the table toward him, and he instinctively backed up into a shelf, its contents clinking against each other. “Did they carry wooden staffs?”

Cain blinked. “Y-yes.”

She snarled and whirled away. “What is that fool doing this far north? He should be in Rhosgobel. And the Grey Wizard is with him!”

“Wizard?” Cain repeated. “You mean those two old coots possess powers?” They sure hadn’t used any during the fight.

Mornince scowled, and then marched to the back shelf where she pulled out a large sack, which she dropped onto the altar. “Meddlesome wizards never could mind their own affairs,” she grumbled, scooping up items and packing them.

Cain stared in bewilderment. “You’re leaving?”

She shot him a baleful look, as though this was all _his_ fault. He had to swallow the urge to remind her that his men were dead because of _her_ idiotic plan to return the captive elf to his people.

“I have to move some things up,” she replied. “Once Thranduil’s realm falls, I will take control of the palace. But those wizards will have to be dealt with first.”

Cain shook his head and turned toward the cave exit. He’d had enough of witches and wizards and elves.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mornince snapped, and the venom in her voice made him freeze.

“I did what you wanted,” he said, drawing his shoulders back to appear taller than his five-foot-eight. “And the losses were not worth the promised payment.”

Mornince’s eyes darkened, and it seemed as though the shadows hugging the perimeter of the cavern began to bend and twist. “I still have use for you.”

Cain opened his mouth to tell her what he thought of that, but a breath of icy air stole down his throat and into his lungs, making them seize. His eyes widened as she glided toward him, one hand reaching up to cup his face. Tapered fingernails dug into the flesh of his cheek.

“Stay and do my bidding, or you may join your friends as carrion for spiders.” She leaned in to press her cheek to his, breath slithering in his ear. “And I promise you will still be alive as they eat you.”

A shudder ran down his spine, but Cain forced himself not to move. Clenching his jaw, he met the sorceress’s gaze with a steely look of his own. Fine, he would do as she said. But the moment she had her prize, he was gone.

Mornince stepped back, mouth curling with malignant glee. “Now, we need to prepare. The wizards will come looking for answers—never can help themselves. And I’ll need them out of the way…”


	4. To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Legolas slumped down against the trunk of an elm, tipping his head back in weariness. He felt as if he had been wandering for days, though it was impossible to mark the passage of time when there was no sun, moon, or stars in this dreary place. Only a pewter sky stretching over an endless, diseased forest. He did not know where he was, though he had begun to suspect that he was dead.

When Legolas first woke under a canopy of gray trees, he’d been confused. These woods were not dense and dark enough to be Mirkwood, which he had confirmed when he’d climbed one of the large sycamores to orient himself. There was no horizon, no landmarks, just a forest devoid of much color. Legolas was not widely traveled, but he felt certain he was no longer in Middle-earth. For one, he could not hear Ilúvatar’s Song, nor sense any life within these woods. For another, he remembered being captured by men and carried toward the Mountains of Mirkwood. He remembered a cave, and a woman with stormy black eyes, and perhaps some kind of spell. Things were hazy around those last moments, except for the certainty that she had meant him harm. But if he was dead, why was he not in the Halls of Mandos? Where was he instead? And would his spirit be doomed to wander this accursed realm for eternity?

The normally stalwart warrior closed his eyes as despair welled up within him. To be cut off from all light, utterly alone in such a desolate place…it was a terrible fate for an elf. But he would not change it by sitting here. So with a deep breath, Legolas steeled himself and rose to his feet.

He rolled his shoulder in discomfort. The absence of his bow and knives was also distressing. Not that he had heard or seen any sign of wildlife. Another reason to suspect this was no ordinary forest.

Legolas began walking again. The direction didn’t matter, as long as he took care not to wander in circles. He passed a large oak lying on its side, shriveled roots curled inward like the legs of a dead spider. Gray moss grew along the rotted out trunk and spilled across the ground. On he traveled, past gnarled trees and through thickets of brambles whose brittle thorns snagged at his tunic and nipped his flesh. He was surprised when he felt the sharp sting of their barbs—apparently one’s _fëa_ was not immune to pain. Legolas gritted his teeth. What other torments would this world present?

A rustling of leaves brought him up short, but the moment he did, the sound stopped. He waited, eyes peeled against the dismal foliage. When nothing stirred, he began walking again, albeit more slowly, his light footsteps barely making an impression in the soil.

The snapping of a twig had him whirling around. His heart rate increased; perhaps he was not as alone as he’d thought. Movement among the brambles he’d just waded through caught his eye, and Legolas held his breath as he watched, fingers twitching with the need for his bow.

Whatever was lurking there did not seem eager to show itself, but then Legolas’s keen eyes spotted a glimmer of yellow, the first color he had seen in this dreadful place. Yet it was not a comforting sight, for the reflected pupils contained a predator’s simmering patience. The creature hunkered down low to the ground, unblinking eyes leering with hungry intent.

Legolas’s breath caught in his throat. He was being hunted.

For a long moment, he and the elusive spirit simply stared at each other. Legolas knew any sudden movements might ignite the beast’s instinct to give chase. But staying to wait for a confrontation would also be unwise. If only he was armed! Legolas flicked his gaze to the tree tops; perhaps they would provide refuge.

Leaping from where he stood, Legolas grabbed the lowest branch of the nearest tree and hauled himself up. He climbed over knotted boughs until he was a good twenty feet off the ground before he paused to glance back toward the bushes. He still couldn’t see through the thorns to what lay beneath, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to.

The shrubbery began to thrash as the creature moved underneath, burrowing its way to the edge and around the back of a large sequoia. Legolas lost sight of it, but then he heard what sounded like scrabbling claws scratching over bark. He tensed, and slowly moved further out on the branch currently supporting him. Please may it not have the ability to climb…

Legolas nearly lost his balance when the thing finally showed itself, skittering around the side of the trunk like a squirrel. But it was neither rodent nor any beast that Legolas had ever seen. At about half the size of an elf, the beast had five-toed claws on each of its four legs, and a muscular torso covered in black fur. A fleshy, rat-like tail swished back and forth, and the creature’s head was more oblong and flat like a gecko’s. Beady yellow eyes fixated on Legolas, and the abomination opened its wide maw to reveal rows of tiny, jagged teeth like shards of glass. A high-pitched chitter issued from its throat, making its entire body vibrate.

Swallowing hard, Legolas continued to back up, even as the branch beneath his feet began to bow under his weight. The monster’s noises turned into a near-shriek, and it suddenly launched itself from the sequoia to land in the branches above the elf. He ducked to avoid getting smacked by the tail.

The beast hunched low, eyes glittering hungrily. Legolas swung down to the next branch to escape a swipe of its claws. Then he was off and running along the sturdier bough and leaping to the next tree. He moved swiftly among their branches, barely disturbing them, while the creature in pursuit shook the trees and thrashed through the leaves. Legolas dared not look back, but he could tell by the sounds and the faintest tremor before his feet left the branches that the thing was on his heels.

He heard a screech, and instinctively ducked, nearly tripping and falling head first toward the ground. The monstrosity skittered over the boughs above to cut him off. When the tail flapped by, Legolas made a grab for it and yanked with all his might. A squeal ripped from its throat as the creature lost its balance. Legolas fell with it, but managed to wrap his legs around the bough. The world tilted, and Legolas found himself dangling upside down while the beast plummeted to the earth. It landed with a resounding thud and shriek of pain.

Legolas hung from the branch for a prolonged moment, watching as the creature below tried to get to its feet again. The task appeared to be a struggle, but Legolas was not going to wait around to make sure. Grabbing the branch beneath him, he unlocked his knees and swung around before resuming his mad dash from tree top to tree top. He did not hear sounds of pursuit, but even so, it was a long time before he finally slowed and ended up collapsing in the neck of a giant fig tree.

The knobby branches twisted up and around, providing shelter for the moment, such as it was. Dried pits and shriveled skins clung stubbornly to the ends of branchlets. After scanning each of the fruit clusters, Legolas concluded there would be nothing edible there. Not that he was very hungry after that close encounter.

He closed his eyes, blood roaring in his ears from his erratically beating heart, fueled by strenuous exertion and lingering terror. All of his years as a warrior did nothing to bolster his strength or bravery here and now, where misery seeped into his spirit as surely as water through earth. He did not like this place. He did not like this place at all.

* * *

 

Elrohir readjusted his grip on the precious cargo in his arms as his horse lumbered over a dip in the ground. Legolas sat in front of him, back to Elrohir’s chest and head tipped against his shoulder. Two days of nonstop travel had finally brought them near the palace, but in that time Legolas had not woken once. He had not even stirred, nor shown any signs of discomfort when Elrohir and Elladan had taken turns bracing him in the saddle.

With one hand holding the reins, Elrohir brought his other up to clasp the prince’s neck, feeling the slow, measured pulse beneath his fingers. At least there was that. But if Legolas had merely been drugged, he would have woken by now, which caused them all a great deal of increasing worry. Half a dozen possible poisons ran through Elrohir’s mind that could result in such a coma, but there was little they could do until they arrived back at the palace and sent for a healer. Yet Elrohir also feared that the longer Legolas remained in this state, the less likelihood that he would recover.

“He feels cold, Gandalf,” the Peredhil said quietly. The wizard was currently riding Elladan’s horse beside him, as space allowed.

“We are almost there,” Mithrandir replied, though his expression was grim.

Through a gap in the trees ahead, they caught a glimpse of the bridge leading to the gates. Elladan paused to take the bridle of Elrohir’s horse and guide him the rest of the way, though it seemed to Elrohir that his twin was using the steed for his own support, and there was a permanent crease in his brow. When Elladan stumbled, Elrohir jerked up in alarm.

“Elladan?”

His brother shook his head. “I’m fine, _muindor_. Just tired.”

Elrohir accepted that; the past few days had been hard on them all.

As soon as they stepped into the small clearing before the bridge, they were surrounded by Woodland elves. In truth, Elrohir was surprised they had not shown themselves earlier, but perhaps their patrols were busy out looking for their prince.

“Mithrandir?” one exclaimed, stepping forward. His eyes darted from each of them before landing on Legolas. “ _Ai_ , Valar, please say he is not…”

“He lives,” Gandalf quickly assured. “But we must take him to the healing ward immediately.”

The elf nodded and quickly spun on his heel, gesturing sharply for his patrol to stand aside. “We have been searching for four days. Where did you find him?”

Gandalf dismounted and handed the horse’s reins to another elf. “It is a long tale I wish Thranduil to be present for.”

“Of course.” He pointed to one of his warriors, who turned and sprinted toward the palace, probably to fetch the king.

Elladan moved to Elrohir’s side, arms ready to take Legolas so his brother could dismount as well. Elrohir eased his friend down, frowning as Elladan staggered under the weight. Two Mirkwood elves surged forward then and took their prince from Elladan, who looked reluctant to relinquish him. Elrohir swung off his horse, and the group hurried to follow as Legolas was carried through the doors and down a side passage. Every elf they passed paused to gasp and gape at the sight of their prince returned in such a dire state.

They came to the healing ward, a space much larger than the rooms at Imladris. But then, Elrohir supposed so many beds were needed when Mirkwood elves lived their lives under constant threat from evil creatures. It made his heart ache, wondering if Legolas had spent time in here before. A dozen beds lined each wall under a high, dome ceiling carved in the underside of the mountain. Though arches were intricately carved to mimic the shapes of trees and branches, it was a poor substitute for the light and airiness found in Rivendell.

The prince was laid gently on one of the beds halfway down the row, and the two warriors who carried him were replaced with healers who immediately began their examination.

“He has no serious wounds,” Elladan spoke up. “Some abrasions on his wrists. He…he’s been in a coma for two days.”

“Poison?” the lead healer asked.

“I don’t know.” Elladan reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Elrohir meant to move closer to his twin to provide comfort, but the doors banged open then, and Thranduil swept inside, expression stormy. He took in Gandalf and Radagast’s presence with a swift flicker of irritation before his gaze came to rest on his son.

“How is he?” The king’s voice may have sounded low and neutral, but there was no mistaking the tightening of his jaw and intensity in his eyes.

The two healers exchanged a glance. “We cannot say, my lord. He is relatively uninjured and his heart beat is strong. Yet he will not wake.”

Thranduil whirled toward the wizards. “What happened?”

Gandalf gave the Elvenking a sympathetic look. “Radagast should begin the tale, as he first discovered what befell Legolas.”

The Brown Wizard rolled his shoulder. “I was tracking a group of poachers who’d been hunting near Rhosgobel, but had recently come this far north. These were cruel men, who used traps that mutilated and crippled but did not kill, leaving their victims to suffer for days before they returned to collect their catch—”

Gandalf cleared his throat obtrusively.

“Ah, yes,” Radagast mumbled sheepishly, and then sobered. “I came upon an elf who’d been caught in such a trap, and then slain by a blade to the heart.”

The nearby elves stiffened, while Thranduil’s eyes narrowed.

“I do not know his name,” Radagast continued. “But I buried him as respectfully as I could, given the knowledge that Prince Legolas had been taken and I needed to resume my tracking. I wish I could have sent word to you, but time was of the essence and they were heading south.”

A muscle in Thranduil’s cheek twitched, but when he spoke it was with gentleness. “His name was Lícumon. He and Legolas had gone out to gather material for arrows.”

Elrohir remembered how Legolas enjoyed making his own arrows. Whenever he visited Imladris and gone hunting with the twins, he would spend the evening by the fire whittling at wood or fletching shafts. Elrohir would tease him about it, saying he need not be so prepared when their valley was well-protected and free of danger. Legolas always responded that the wood there was good quality and would serve him well when he returned home.

Radagast bowed his head. “I will show you where his shell is housed if you wish to retrieve him.”

Thranduil also inclined his head in gratitude, but then his mien sharpened again with growing ire. “Who was it who took my son? You said they were heading south. Orcs?”

“Men,” Gandalf put in, earning several quirked brows and hushed exclamations.

“Men,” Thranduil repeated icily.

“We do not know why,” Gandalf added. “In fact, this whole business is rather strange and suspicious. I made for Mirkwood the moment I received Radagast’s message, and the sons of Elrond came with me. We all met up near the Mountains of Mirkwood, and shortly thereafter came upon four men. Legolas was with them, in the exact condition you see now.”

“And where are these men currently?” Thranduil asked, menace brimming under the surface of his controlled tone. Elrohir had never witnessed the Elvenking’s temper, but if it was anything like Legolas’s, that was something to avoid like a rattlesnake.

“Three are dead and one escaped,” Elrohir finally spoke. “I would have gone after the fourth, but we believed it more important to get Legolas back here.”

A storm raged in Thranduil’s dark eyes. “Well, then I may still have a chance to exact vengeance of my own.”

“My lord,” Gandalf broke in insistently. “Something is wrong about all of this. We may need this man alive to question. For instance, why were they heading _back_ north with Legolas? And when we caught them, they were all too willing to let us take him and go. There must be a reason.”

“Perhaps they simply wanted me to watch my son die,” Thranduil snapped.

Elrohir winced at the crass declaration; he refused to believe Legolas was dying. They just needed to figure out what he’d been poisoned with and find an antidote. If only his father were here… But Elrond had taught his sons everything he knew, though Elladan was the better healer of the twins. Elrohir turned to give his brother an imploring look, only to watch him suddenly wobble back a step and collapse on the floor.

“Elladan!”

The elves who had brought Legolas in were standing closer, and reached Elladan’s side first in order to pick him up and lay him on one of the beds. They’d barely set him down when one of the warriors jerked his hand back and shook it out as though he’d poked himself on a concealed weapon.

Elrohir pushed past him and placed his hands on either side of his brother’s face. “Elladan?”

One of the healers came around the other side and began running her hands over Elladan’s body. “Was he wounded in the fight?”

“No.” Elrohir shot Gandalf a desperate look. “I mean, I don’t think so.” Surely Elladan would not have hid an injury from him.

Gandalf came to stand at the foot of the bed, brow deeply furrowed. He did not speak though, but awaited the healer’s conclusion.

The elf straightened with a confused shake of her head. “I can find no injury.” She flicked an uncertain glance at Legolas in the next bed, and Elrohir’s blood ran cold.

“You think this is the same affliction?”

The healer hesitated. “I cannot be sure of that. Did he ingest anything strange recently?”

“No. We did not stop to eat once we found Legolas.” Elrohir dropped his gaze to Elladan again, hand pressed to his brother’s forehead. His twin did not stir, not even a twitch in his facial muscles. He was as still and silent as Legolas. But what was this? Elves were not susceptible to disease…

Elrohir whirled to face the others staring at him. “We should send word to my father.”

Thranduil’s gaze was impassive, yet his eyes flitted to Legolas. “It will take too long for him to receive the message and then make the journey,” the king said quietly.

“Ah, I can help with that,” Radagast spoke up. “I will find a trustworthy bird to carry the missive. It just needs to be short and penned on a small piece of parchment.”

Elrohir felt a thrill of hope. Surely his father would know what to do.

“I will write the message,” Gandalf volunteered, and turned to follow Radagast out.

The healers also moved away from their patients, not knowing what to do. Elrohir glanced over his shoulder as Thranduil came up along the other bed and laid a hand on his son’s brow. Legolas was all the king had left, and should he perish, it would be a great blow to the Woodland Realm.

Elrohir wrenched his thoughts from that dark path. Legolas would not die. Neither would Elladan. They would figure out what was causing this and find a remedy. They had to.


	5. Walking in Worlds Beyond

One moment Elladan was fighting a growing headache and immense worry—and the next he was standing in the middle of a forest at what appeared to be approaching twilight. A gray shroud blotted out what he could see of the sky through a canopy of crooked branches and cobwebs as thick as moss. He slowly turned in a full circle, noting the absence of sound or movement. The silence could have bordered on tranquil, were it not for the profound sense of _wrongness_ permeating the air.

Elladan frowned. Was this a vision of some kind? He had never shown any signs of inheriting his father’s gift of foresight before, but there was definitely an otherworldly feel about his surroundings. How had he come to be here? Wait…hadn’t he been in Mirkwood’s healing ward only moments ago? With Legolas! Elladan spun around faster this time, eyes peeled against the tendrils of mist wafting in and out of trees. This had to be a vision, or a dream. But why? He did not remember going to sleep, not with his friend so ill and no idea how to help. Besides, if this was some type of foresight, shouldn’t some scene be playing out before him? Why was he utterly alone?

When waiting for several long minutes accomplished nothing, Elladan picked a direction and began to walk. The earth was soft and porous beneath his feet, and when he reached out to touch a tree, its bark felt rough and scratchy. It was strange how realistic sensations were, even when Elladan knew they must not be real.

“Hello?” he called, wondering whether one of the Valar were reaching out to him. Why else would he have been pulled into this mysterious place? Perhaps he had to prove himself somehow, and if he did, they would tell him how to help Legolas.

But the longer he walked with no sign or indication of his purpose, the more Elladan began to feel growing trepidation. How was he supposed to find his way out of here? He stopped and closed his eyes, willing himself to wake. Yet nothing happened. If this truly was spirit travel—and he could think of no other explanation—it was unusually weighted, as though his _fëa_ were anchored by a force as strong as gravity.

He had to fight back a surge of rising panic; succumbing to despair would not help him find a way out of this. Perhaps his brother would be able to wake him. Elladan’s chest constricted with the thought of Elrohir distraught over worrying about Legolas and now Elladan too. He had to find a way back to them.

The forest was becoming denser the further he traveled, and Elladan wished he knew whether he was going in the right direction. He stopped short, Legolas’s laughter echoing in his mind.

_“A wood-elf can never get lost as long as there are trees to climb!”_

A smile tried to come forth at the pleasant memory, but alas there was no time for it. Turning to the nearest tree, Elladan leaped up and began to climb. The branches were thin, and several had rotted, sagging sections that threatened to break under his weight. He tried to spur himself on by imagining what Legolas would say were he here. Probably something about how the Ñoldor were too prim and proper to know how to scale a tree.

Elladan huffed out loud, the thought enough to stir his indignation, and then he almost laughed at himself for formulating an argument with one who wasn’t there. _We will have such an argument again,_ Elladan silently promised. _For ages to come_.

Hefting himself up onto the highest branch that would support him, Elladan pushed a clump of branchlets and leaves aside to look out over the landscape. A chill ran down his spine, for this forest stretched as far and wide as the eye could see—which for an elf was a great distance. There was no change in the terrain, either. No valleys or mountains. Just a flat expanse of an ancient-looking forest falling into ruin.

Elladan perched there for a long time, a myriad of questions and doubts running through his mind. Why was this happening? Why was he here? Those seemed more important than the ‘how’ as despair sank its teeth into his heart. As long as he was in this place, he could not help Legolas. And Elrohir would be worried sick. How much time had passed for his brother? Was it hours as it felt like here, or more? Less? Did time even have meaning in the spirit realm?

With nothing else to do, Elladan began to climb back down. He set his foot on a wide branch, expecting one so broad to hold his weight, but it instantly caved in with a groan. Elladan’s heart shot into his throat as he fell. Air whooshed around him, interrupted only by the slapping of leaves and twigs that he crashed through. His arms flailed to catch himself on something, anything, but everything he hit seemed to crumble in response, nearly the entire tree rotted down to silt.

And then he hit something spongy and flexible that stopped his fall, a mere fifteen feet from the ground. Elladan didn’t move for a long moment, heart thundering in his chest and hands shaking. Then, slowly, he tried to stretch out his arm to grab the branch of the tree on his left, hoping it wasn’t as diseased as the other one. But his elbow snagged on whatever stringy material had saved him.

Elladan shifted slightly, and found his savior to be rather secure. His relief was short-lived, however, because a closer look revealed he’d fallen into a massive web. He immediately tried to jerk away and scramble out of it, but the movement only made the strands cling more stubbornly to his clothes. In less than a minute, one arm was trapped at his side, and his legs were firmly entangled. His pulse ratcheted up again, and it took every ounce of willpower to stop struggling before he made things worse.

“Elrohir, I wish you were here,” Elladan moaned. Not that he wanted his brother to be trapped in this desolate place, but they were always a pair—getting into trouble together and getting out of it. That was what Elladan wanted then: the other half of his fire and strength. Where Elladan was cautious, Elrohir was brash; the elder more soft-spoken and analytical, the younger passionate and quick-thinking. His twin would get him out of this predicament…even if it caused another one.

Elladan focused on taking deep breaths and trying to work out a solution. But then a vibration ran through the webbing, and he shot his head up. His lungs seized at the sight of a monstrous black bat stepping off a nearby tree and onto the edge of the web. Its torso was the size of a baby, covered in dark brown fuzz. Leathery wings folded along bony, backward-jointed arms that slowly crawled across the web, nubby claws clinging effortlessly to the strands. A tiny head sat between two broad shoulders, beady eyes seeming to glow with fulvous hellfire in this environment of muted shades.

Elladan began to squirm. He flailed his free hand up and around in search of a branch he could grab and haul himself up with. The bat made a slurping sound and opened its mouth. It only had a set of two top fangs, but an instant later a glob of viscous white goo shot out and hit Elladan’s hand, knocking it back against the web and trapping it there. He tried to wrench free, but the sticky mess seemed to be the same material the web was made out of, and was seamlessly coalescing together. Now Elladan began to panic.

“Elrohir!” His brother might sense his distress, though Elladan didn’t know what good it would do. “Gandalf!”

The bat stalked closer, mouth hanging open now and saliva dripping from its fangs. Elladan knew this was not his physical body, yet he still did not want his _fëa_ to be devoured alive. The sticky web tightened around him, constricting his limbs until he could barely move. Terror shot through his heart. His family would have no idea what had happened to him.

The web juddered again, and Elladan despaired at the thought of being feasted on by multiple monsters. But the bat whipped its head to the side with a snarl, body wobbling for balance as a section of webbing seemed to unhitch from its anchor. Elladan’s stomach leaped into his throat as he dropped a good foot before the net held again. And then he caught sight of a figure leaping from tree branch to tree branch, the _last_ person he expected to see in this place.

Legolas’s blond hair was slightly dirty, as were his clothes, and instead of his customary bow or ivory knives, he held what looked like a sharpened rock bound to a short chunk of wood with twine. The bat flapped its wings and launched itself at Legolas, who made a swipe with his crude blade. A pain-filled screech rattled Elladan’s ears as a splash of oily black fluid splattered part of the web.

Legolas nimbly jumped to another branch, and Elladan feared one would give way just as it had for him, but Legolas moved as though weightless. The bat made another slurping sound as it turned to face the blond elf again.

“Watch out!” Elladan cried.

Legolas ducked just as a glob of mucoid gunk sailed over his head. The bat lunged again, but instead of dodging, Legolas stood his ground and thrust his knife straight into the creature. There was a thump as the bat crashed into the prince, and Elladan’s heart stuttered, his view blocked by the beast’s wingspan.

Then it began to slide down, revealing Legolas still standing. He planted a foot on the bat’s head and shoved it all the way off his blade. The creature fell to the forest floor below, landing with a dull thud. Legolas stared at it for a prolonged moment before lifting his gaze to Elladan, and there was definitely shock in those blue eyes.

Elladan probably should have said something reassuring, but his emotions were a torrent of disbelief, joy, and confusion. Legolas began weaving his way through the branches to reach the other side of the web where he crouched down and started sawing through the strands binding Elladan.

“Legolas,” he finally spoke. “Thank the Valar. Are you all right?”

Legolas paused in his efforts to give Elladan a strange look—sadness mixed with reluctance.

Elladan’s heart rate kicked up again. “Legolas?”

“I’m fine,” the prince replied in a low voice, and resumed trying to cut the web down. Elladan wanted to press, but decided to wait until he had full use of his limbs.

Legolas sliced through different sections of webbing with the efficiency of one who was used to dealing with spider nests, and it wasn’t long before Elladan felt the bindings loosen. Legolas grabbed his arm and pulled him safely onto the branch before he could fall.

Elladan hastily wiped his hands on his leggings to get the sticky feeling off, then glanced down. “I should like to return to the ground now.”

A flicker of fear crossed Legolas’s face, but after a quick look around, he nodded. Elladan had been expecting some banter or teasing for not being at home in the trees as the prince was, and so this near silence was scaring him. But, he had to remind himself that he had only been in this place a short time, and already Elladan had been terrified beyond imagining. Who knew what Legolas had gone through.

They carefully made their way down, and once they were securely on solid ground, Elladan grabbed Legolas and pulled him into a fierce embrace.

“I have been so worried, _mellon nîn_. We didn’t know what had happened to you.” They still didn’t, but simply _seeing_ Legolas here was something.

Legolas returned the gesture, though it seemed half-hearted. “I’m sorry, Elladan.”

Elladan pulled back sharply. “For what? Nothing was your fault. But now that I’ve found you, we can work together to make sense of this… Legolas?”

Legolas had looked away, as though unable to meet Elladan’s eye. “You’d gone looking for me?” he asked softly. Why did he sound so dejected?

“Yes. Elrohir and I were with Gandalf when he received word from Radagast, and we came right away.”

Legolas closed his eyes in obvious grief. “Then you are dead because of me.”

Elladan’s brows rose sharply. “What are you talking about?”

Legolas gestured helplessly to their surroundings. “Surely you’ve noticed this is not Middle-earth. I don’t know why I was not permitted entrance into the Halls of Waiting, but if you were cast into this wretched place because of me, then I am so deeply sorry…”

Elladan sucked in a breath with the realization. He reached out both hands to grip Legolas’s arms, forcing the prince to face him. “Legolas, no—you’re not dead!”

Legolas shook his head as though Elladan was the one in hopeless denial.

“No,” he insisted. “I told you we came to Mirkwood immediately, and we _found_ you. Alive. You’ve been in a coma though, one we could not find a reason or cure for.”

Legolas frowned. “Are…are you sure?”

Elladan moved one hand up to clasp his friend’s shoulder. “Yes. It took us two days to bring you home, and we had just settled you in the healing ward when…” He paused and looked around. When Elladan had found himself here instead.

The brief glimpse of hope on Legolas’s face faded. “If that is the case and you are here now…then you have likely fallen into a coma as well.”

That was a disheartening thought, and Elladan finally began to wonder about the _how_ in all this. It could not be an illness, which elves weren’t generally vulnerable to, not with he and Legolas finding each other in this strange place.

“What do you remember about the ones who took you?” he asked.

Legolas’s eyes darkened. “I remember Lícumon being caught in a trap, and men offering to help. I was wary at first, of course, but they did free Lícumon’s leg.” A muscle in his jaw ticked. “They used that moment when I was focused on Lícumon to attack. They…drugged me with something.”

Elladan clenched a fist, his anger stirred anew. “We found evidence they were keeping you sedated as they moved south.”

Legolas looked away again, and Elladan could imagine the proud prince’s sense of shame, though it was not his fault. “Aye,” he said softly. “I don’t remember any of it, only that when I woke we were near the mountains and the leader told me he killed Lícumon.”

“Three of them are dead,” Elladan assured him, but did not mention that the apparent leader had escaped. Though the grief Legolas was feeling must be intense, they needed to concentrate on parsing out this puzzle. “What happened then?” he pressed.

Legolas stepped away, but not before Elladan felt a shudder run through him. “They took me to a cave. There was a woman there…a sorceress. She…she hinted that she knew my grandfather.” Legolas reached up to rub his temple. “She mentioned bringing about the ruin of the Mirkwood elves, and how I would be her instrument. Then she began mixing a potion and chanting a spell. I fought, but couldn’t break free.”

Elladan moved closer to once again put a comforting hand on his friend’s arm. His own heart twinged as he imagined going through that.

Legolas shook his head. “Things become hazy at that point. The next thing I clearly remember is being here.”

Elladan nodded thoughtfully, turning his head to scan the forest again. “I think it’s safe to say this is some kind of spirit travel, since I know for a fact your body is in Mirkwood. The sorceress must have cast a spell, but for what purpose?” he mused.

Legolas lifted a morose look at him. “I’m sorry you’re here because of me, Elladan.”

“Don’t. If that’s what it took for me to find you, then I do not regret it. I admit, nearly being eaten by that creature was terrifying, but I am also heartened that you are no longer alone.” Elladan gave Legolas’s arm a squeeze before stepping back and squaring his shoulders. “So, we must figure out what to do next.”

Legolas shifted hesitantly, but finally that glint of defiance Elladan usually found vexing—but desperately wanted to see again—was back. “First, we must make you a weapon. That bat is not the only thing stalking these woods.”

Well, that was an ominous revelation he could have done without. But Elladan was glad to see the prince’s spark return. And now that Legolas knew he had not perished, that there was a chance to return home, he would fight all that much harder to get them back. So would Elladan.

* * *

 

Gandalf stood in the doorway to the healing ward, mouth pressed in a tight line as he watched two more elves be carried in and laid on beds. They were the guards who had brought Legolas in the day before, and now they too had fallen into a strange and inexplicable sleep. If this was some sickness, Gandalf had never heard tell of it before. But this ailment did seem to behave like a pathogen, striking down only a select few who had been exposed—so far.

The Grey Wizard turned his attention to Legolas, as still and pale as when they’d found him. Whatever was happening here had begun with his capture and unexpected release, which meant answers would not be found within the Mirkwood palace.

A light rapping against the floor had Gandalf turning to greet Radagast as the fellow Istar approached, his staff tapping out a hurried rhythm.

“Gandalf, I just heard,” the Brown Wizard said in a hushed voice, peeking over Gandalf’s shoulder into the infirmary. Thranduil had hardly left his son’s side, but with the news of two more elves being afflicted, he had gone to meet with his council. Elrohir remained, sitting in a chair set between the beds of his brother and Legolas.

“There is something evil at work here,” Gandalf murmured.

Radagast quirked a brow. “Like what?”

Gandalf glanced at the prince and Peredhil, a pang shooting through his heart. He had walked Middle-earth for a long time, met many folk whom he befriended, but those two he felt an especial fondness for. Along with Elrohir, whom Gandalf had begun to fear for as well.

“I do not know, but if we are to find answers, we must go to the source.”

Radagast’s eyes widened. “The poacher who escaped.”

“Yes.” Gandalf pivoted and began striding down the passage to the heart of the palace. “Though it is likely he is long gone. However, they had taken Legolas south to the mountains before turning back, so they must have had a destination. If we find where, we may find the answers we seek.”

Radagast shuffled quickly to keep up. “And if we do not?”

Gandalf didn’t answer; he couldn’t. Elves were hale and hearty beings, capable of withstanding many things that would kill a man or lesser creature, but even they could not survive a lengthy time without nourishment. Gandalf took some measure of comfort knowing that Elrond would come once he received their message, and the renowned healer may have something to offer. But likely it would merely stave off the inevitable.

Gandalf came to the steps leading up to the wide platform where Thranduil sat on his throne, one hand wearily bracing his head as his counselors argued over each other.

“They should be quarantined!” one said heatedly.

Another scoffed. “It is likely too late for that. Besides, only two of the dozen or so who were around them have fallen ill.”

The dispute did not cease with the wizards’ arrival, though Gandalf did not care. He walked straight to Thranduil, who looked up and swiftly straightened.

“Do you have news or insight, Mithrandir? Or do you come to blow hot air as these are doing?”

It was a testament to how distraught the counselors were that they did not mark their lord’s words and silence themselves.

“Radagast and I are leaving,” Gandalf replied, and bristled with indignation at the scowl that creased the king’s features. “To search out where your son had been taken in the first place,” he added snippily. “They obviously had a base somewhere near the mountains. If we cannot find the man who escaped, then we may at least discover signs of what was done to Legolas.”

Thranduil’s jaw worked considerably, the burdens of a king conflicting with the anguish of a father. The Elvenking was prideful, quicker to keep his realm isolated than to ask for help. And though Thranduil and Gandalf were not enemies, their interactions had always been a tumultuous balance of begrudging respect and tolerance.

“I promise you I will not rest until I find answers,” Gandalf said. “You are not alone in this, my lord.”

Thranduil turned shrewd eyes on the wizard. “Normally the word of a wizard means nothing to me.”

Gandalf drew himself up, prepared for an argument, but the king continued.

“But I know you care for Legolas.” Grief filled Thranduil’s eyes before it was shoved down deep behind the mask of a stoic king. “And you may be the only one who can help him.”

“Elrond will come,” Gandalf pointed out.

Thranduil let out a soft, humorless snort. “Then the life of my son is in the hands of a wizard and a Ñoldo.”

“Two wizards,” Radagast piped up, earning an eye roll from the Elvenking.

Gandalf placed a hand on the armrest of Thranduil’s throne, not disrespectful enough to touch the king himself, but offering the symbolic gesture. “Be strong, my lord. Your people need you, as does Legolas. We will return.”

With that, Gandalf turned and exited the platform, Radagast on his heels. It would take a couple days simply to journey south, and who knew how long to find what they were looking for once there. Gandalf sent a prayer to the Valar that nothing worse would happen in that time.


	6. Epidemic

Thranduil sat by his son’s bedside, silently watching as healers moved in and out among the now eight elves lying in comas. This disease, for they knew not what else to call it, was spreading faster with each passing hour. The wizards had only been gone a day; by the time they returned, all of Mirkwood may have fallen to this mysterious illness.

The king turned away from the grief-stricken and anxious expressions of his subjects, and gazed upon the smooth, impassive face of his son. It had been many years since Thranduil had watched Legolas sleep, and even more centuries since such nightly vigils had shown the prince at peace. Life in Mirkwood was not easy. It was a constant battle against the encroaching Shadow, a ceaseless struggle that had no foreseeable end. Thranduil knew that every time Legolas went out on patrol his life could be sacrificed for a realm most considered dark and terrible, and even fewer held dear. But the wood-elves stayed, for it was their home.

Thranduil reached up to rub his forehead. Knowing the risks his son and his people took was one thing, for they were capable warriors. But this…this invisible enemy able to strike them down without warning, without the ability to fight back or protect themselves…that was worse.

A figure entered his field of vision, and Elrohir laid a hand on Legolas’s brow, his own furrowed with worry and weariness. None had slept since more elves had become ill, some because they were tirelessly on guard and tending the sick, others because they were afraid that to willingly sleep meant they would never wake.

Thranduil watched the tenderness on the young Peredhil’s face, moved that Elrohir would split his time equally between his brother and Legolas. Their friendship had often bemused Thranduil, for though Mirkwood and Imladris were allies, they were also so different that relations were more formality than genuine kinship. With the exception of Legolas and Elrond’s sons. And though the king had initially begrudged Legolas’s desire to visit Rivendell annually, Thranduil had to admit that such trips always did his son’s spirit a world of good. Whenever he returned home, it was with renewed fire to protect his people and the forest he was born in.

Elrohir’s shoulders slumped, and he tucked the blanket more securely around Legolas’s shoulder. Though the prince was cold to touch, he did not shiver. Too often Thranduil’s mind would drift from exhaustion, only to startle awake when it looked as though Legolas was lying dead. Yet he still breathed. Even if that was all he did.

“I do not understand,” Elrohir whispered.

Thranduil looked up and saw the youth and vulnerability in the elf’s eyes. Though they had a millennium of years, Elrond’s sons and Legolas were young in comparison to how long Thranduil had walked this earth. It stirred his parental instincts—he should offer comfort or reassurances…though in this situation, he did not know how to.

“None of the healers do,” he said instead.

Elrohir shook his head, glancing over his shoulder to the still form of his twin. “We both cared for Legolas on the journey back. Why is Elladan afflicted and I am not?”

Ah, so it was a form of survivor’s guilt. Thranduil was all too familiar with that. But it did not mean he had an answer for the young elf; at least, not one that would satisfy.

“I am grieved for your brother,” Thranduil said carefully. “But I am also glad you were there for my son when I was not.”

Elrohir dropped his gaze to Legolas. “I don’t know how to help them.”

Thranduil felt the weight of his burdens and worry bear down on his soul. “Neither do I.”

* * *

 

Legolas and Elladan moved cautiously under the trees, eyes constantly peeled for predators and other threats. There was no telling what they might come across in this strange spirit realm. Legolas wasn’t sure how to feel about the fact that he was apparently still alive, only trapped in a deep sleep. It meant he had not been banned from the Halls of Mandos, a thought that had distressed him greatly. Although, if he was trapped in some sort of dream, was Elladan even real? Or a figment of his overwrought imagination?

No, he decided. If his mind were to conjure up someone to keep him company in this dreadful place, it probably wouldn’t have been Elladan stuck in a web about to be devoured. Also, if what the Peredhil said was true, then there was hope now for Legolas to escape this realm if he managed to wake. If they both did. And so Legolas chose to believe his friend was truly by his side…but it was mingled with bitter shame. Elladan was here because of him, and though it pained him, he could not help but feel grateful to no longer be alone.

“I wonder if the forest truly goes on forever, or if it is an illusion,” Elladan spoke up in a casual tone that belied his taut shoulders and grip on the makeshift dagger he’d fashioned.

“I have walked for a long time,” Legolas pointed out.

“But if this is a dream construct, are you truly moving? Or staying in place while everything around you changes?”

Legolas tossed him an exasperated look. Yes, this Elladan was real. “Does it matter?”

Elladan shrugged. “It is just curious.”

Legolas did not think so. He did not care to muse on the inner workings of this realm, for it must have been a twisted mind indeed that dreamt it up. However, he latched onto the lifeline of simply having someone to talk to after what felt like so long. “Where do the demons come from then? They don’t seem like illusions.”

“Hm, good point.” Elladan hopped over a log covered in brown lichen. “I would say a lot of work went into this place. It is vast, but also…” He cocked his head as though extending his senses in a way Legolas could not. “Confining.”

Legolas sighed in understanding. “I admit that since you told me I was merely dreaming, I have tried to force myself to wake.” He glanced around the dreary forest. “But this is nothing like the paths of elven dreams.”

“No, it is not,” Elladan said with a frown. “But since our bodies are alive, that means our spirits are still tethered to them in some way, which means there must be a path that leads back to them. We just have to find it.”

Legolas could not help the weighted feeling that settled on his shoulders then; this world was vast, and he had covered a lot of ground already. Plus, he did not even feel such a connection with his physical shell—and tried not to wonder what that meant. Elladan had said he’d been in a coma for at least two days. Was his tether weakening?

He froze as a vicious snarl echoed through the woods. Elladan whipped his blade up, gaze darting nervously around the foliage. The two of them may not be dead yet, but that didn’t mean the demons inhabiting this world couldn’t kill them. Legolas was poised to climb the nearest tree when a scream that did not belong to an animal followed. Exchanging a look with Elladan, they both leaped into action, barreling through the underbrush toward the savage sounds of a wild animal and the cries of its prey.

Legolas burst into a clearing, and his heart seized at the sight of an elf being mauled by what appeared to be a large wild cat. Like every creature in this realm, the sleek body was black. It had a bushy, sable mane and tufts of fur around its four paws. With a guttural roar, the beast slashed its claws at the elf scrabbling backward on the ground. He cried out as they tore across his chest.

“Ohtar!” Legolas leaped at the cat, slicing his dagger along its flank. The creature jerked back with a yowl and swiped a massive paw at him in retaliation. Legolas twisted away, narrowly avoiding the claws.

Elladan skirted around to the cat’s other side before lunging forward with his own knife and jabbing it in the hip. He danced back as the cat whirled, and Legolas took that moment to dart in again. The jagged rock cut roughly through thick tissue and muscle, spraying black ichor onto the ground to mix with the crimson blood already staining it. Spitting an enraged hiss at them both, the beast bolted into a run and fled.

Legolas hurried to the wounded elf. “Ohtar…” He dropped to his knees, taking in the multiple lacerations covering the Mirkwood warrior’s torso, arms, and legs. Tattered strips of clothing and skin hung like frayed banners singed with blood, and the glint of bone showed through some of the deeper gashes. Legolas’s hands hovered in the air, unsure where to even start.

Ohtar gazed up at him through pupils blown wide as shock took root. Tremors ran through his body and ragged breaths hiccoughed in his throat. “My lord?” he gasped.

“Easy,” Legolas replied, finally settling a hand on a spot on the elf’s forearm that was not injured.

Elladan crouched on Ohtar’s other side, mouth pressed into a grim line as he took in the injuries with a healer’s critical eye. Blood was steadily pooling beneath the wounded elf and spreading like spilled oil.

“Look at me,” Legolas commanded, drawing Ohtar’s gaze. “You must be strong.”

The warrior looked frightened, and his eyes darted around the strange forest. “My lord,” he rasped. “You’re here. Where—” A cough punched from his lungs, cutting off his words and choking him as blood gurgled up to drip out the corner of his mouth. It was pinkish and frothy.

Legolas shot Elladan a frantic look, but the Peredhil merely returned it sadly. _No!_

Ohtar wheezed out another desperate breath, and his hand clamped down on Legolas’s arm. “ _Hir_ _nîn_ , there are…others.”

“Others?”

He nodded, though it caused a grimace. “Who…sleep.”

Legolas’s heart dropped into his stomach. Others in comas? Others who were trapped _here_? He glanced at Elladan again, whose brow was marred with a deep crease. Legolas caught his eye beseechingly; there had to be something… Elladan gave a small head shake.

Legolas briefly closed his eyes against the swell of grief. Ohtar was one of Mirkwood’s warriors, a fierce defender of their home. He should not have to die like this, not in this wretched place.

“It’s…” Ohtar coughed. “Spreading.”

Legolas reached over and clasped the elf’s shoulder.“Shh, save your strength.”

Ohtar’s breaths hitched faster and faster, until at last he sucked in a sharp inhalation, and it wheezed out in a slow, final movement. Brown eyes dimmed as they grew distant, the _fëa_ extinguished.

Legolas bowed forward, touching his forehead to Ohtar’s. “ _Govano in nothrim în adh i mellyn în mi Mannos_.” May he meet his family and friends in Mandos.

Legolas straightened, only to jerk back as Ohtar’s body began to shimmer, his form turning translucent until Legolas could see through him to the blood-coated ground. And then the elf was gone, his spirit faded from this world. The only sign that he had been here at all was the crimson splashed against a gray backdrop. Such a display of color was macabre in this domain of death and horror.

“Do you think he woke?” Legolas asked in a soft voice. Elladan didn’t respond, which in a way was answer enough. Legolas slowly got to his feet, eyes unable to look away from the bloody smears interspersed with black, oily splashes. This was his doing. Whatever curse the sorceress had laid upon him was spreading to his people and subjecting them to the same fate. How could he stop this? How could he prevent others from falling victim to this spell? And who had already succumbed? Elrohir? His father? There was no way to know.

“Legolas. _Legolas_.”

He snapped his head up to find Elladan standing close, an ardent expression on his face.

“This is _not_ your fault, _mellon nîn_.”

A derisive snort escaped his throat. “No? Because of me, my people are _dying_!”

“You did not choose this,” Elladan retorted. “Whoever is doing this is targeting all of Mirkwood, and probably would have used any elf to see it done.”

Legolas squeezed his eyes shut, remembering the sorceress’s words, how ecstatic she’d been to realize the elf she’d caught was the Prince of Mirkwood. “I know you speak the truth, Elladan,” he said hoarsely. “But it does not change the fact that my duty is to protect my people, and I cannot.”

Elladan clasped his shoulder. “Yes, you can. If other elves have been sent here, then we must find them.”

Legolas looked up, jaw tightening as he drew strength from his friend. He nodded, and bent down to pick up their daggers, passing one to Elladan. “You’re right. There will be safety in numbers, and perhaps we may learn what has been happening in Mirkwood.”

When he turned away, Elladan grabbed his arm to stop him, eyes softening with compassion. “You have always shouldered many burdens, Legolas. Do not allow guilt to be one of them, especially when it is not rightly yours to bear.”

After an extended moment of wrestling with his inner turmoil and Elladan’s words, Legolas bowed his head. No longer would he be lost to despair, wandering this accursed place aimlessly. They had a plan now, a task to drive them forward—Legolas would find and protect his people. He glanced back at where Ohtar had lain, and just hoped they would not be too late again.

* * *

 

Elrohir rubbed his face wearily. He had not slept in several days, and while he knew running himself ragged would not help Elladan and Legolas, he could not bring himself to rest. Especially since it seemed doing so was a great risk in itself. Some of the elves had collapsed like Elladan, while others in the beginning had simply entered elven dreams, and when they were found, their eyes had closed and they would not wake.

The healers had begun to look to Elrohir for counsel, merely because he was the son of a great healer. But Elladan had always been the one more attuned to such work, while Elrohir favored the art of craftsmanship and weapon wielding.

Looking dejectedly at his twin’s still form, Elrohir took Elladan’s cold hand. _If only our places were reversed, muindor. Your skills would be of more use here_.

He hoped their father was on his way. Elrohir didn’t know what Gandalf had written, whether there was space to mention Elladan’s condition. Elrond would make haste if he knew his sons were in danger, but if it was just a call for aid from Mirkwood? Not that he would ever ignore a request for help, but time was of the essence, and Elrohir prayed his father would hurry. Perhaps he was even closer than they realized. He might have had a vision of his sons in need and already set out. Yes, Elrohir would hold onto that gossamer thread of hope.

A commotion drew his attention across the room where three healers had gathered around one of the elves. Elrohir lurched to his feet. Had someone woken? Or… He could not see clearly through the crowding bodies, but the elf in the bed did not appear to be moving.

Thranduil had risen as well, though he only shifted to the foot of Legolas’s bed, reluctant to allow much distance between them. “Nesséro?” he called.

One of the healers lifted his head, face drawn as he skirted the beds to approach his king. “ _Hir_ _nîn_ , it is Ohtar… He has passed into Mandos.”

Elrohir’s chest constricted. The first fatality, proving that this illness had the ability to take a life. He glanced worriedly at his brother and friend.

Thranduil’s jaw was tight. “I will tell his family.”

“What was the cause?” Elrohir spoke up. He may not have been a skilled healer, but he’d paid attention to his father’s lessons.

Nesséro turned a helpless look over his shoulder toward the deceased elf as the other healers drew the sheet up over his head. “We do not know. He made no sound or indication of distress. It seems his heart and lungs simply stopped.”

“When did he fall into the coma?”

“He was the sixth.”

Elrohir frowned. Legolas and Elladan had been ill much longer, so why was Ohtar the first to die? “Was his _fëa_ weakened by grief recently? Or had he a physical injury he was recovering from?”

Nesséro shook his head. “No, he was hale, as are—were—the others.” He ducked his gaze away from Thranduil at the correction.

The Elvenking turned back toward his son, expression an unreadable tempest.

Nesséro looked to Elrohir. “Perhaps it was an isolated incident.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured in feeble agreement. He hated being so powerless, forced to watch his friends suffer with no idea how to help them. Elrohir should have gone with the wizards; at least then he would have felt useful. But he couldn’t bear to leave his brother’s side. They had never been far apart from each other, and Elrohir was terrified that if he turned away for too long, Elladan would disappear, claimed by this unnamed disease.

Elrohir retook the seat by his twin’s bed, taking his brother’s hand. With his other, he reached out and took Legolas’s, offering them both a comforting squeeze that neither could return.

_Please hurry, Gandalf_.


	7. Two Birds, One Stone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fox was not originally supposed to stick around, btw, but he did anyway.

Radagast shook his foot loose from a clump of briars, nearly unseating the passenger on his shoulder. The fennec fox gave a small squeak and dug its claws into the Brown Wizard’s robe.

“Sorry, Norman,” he hastily soothed.

“What?” Gandalf paused to throw him a befuddled look.

“Our little friend here,” Radagast explained, pointing to the tawny squirt whose massive ears were folded under the low brim of the wizard’s hat. “I named him Norman.”

Gandalf arched a brow. “Nor-” He shook his head. “Never mind. Radagast, why did you bring him? This is a _serious_ task we must see to here.”

Radagast paid no mind to his friend’s tetchy disapproval. Gandalf was merely tense with worry for his elvish friends. Radagast knew lives were at stake, and he too had grown impatient with the slow travel to the Mountains of Mirkwood. He’d sent a bird to summon his Rhosgobel rabbits, for they would cut the journey time in half on his sleigh. But his faithful hares had yet to rendezvous with them, and now Radagast had the added concern that they had met with a trap he’d missed. But he could only focus on one problem at a time, and at the moment, they had finally reached the mountains, which meant their true search began.

“Norman knows the poacher’s scent,” he countered. “He may be small, but he has a gallant heart.”

The fox stood up on his shoulder and let out a high-pitched bark in staunch affirmation. Gandalf rolled his eyes, but dropped the subject. Radagast gently put Norman on the ground where the fox did a quick little spin.

“Go on, friend,” the wizard coaxed.

With a yip, Norman darted off under the brush. Radagast turned his attention to the base of the mountains. The Dark Mountains they were called, Emyn Duir, not so long ago when Mirkwood was Greenwood the Great. Silvan elves had dwelled there until the Giant Spiders moved in to make it their home. It was a dangerous place to wander, and Radagast wondered whether these poachers had been mad or foolishly brash. Canting his head at Gandalf and the way the Grey Wizard was undauntedly marching along the base, Radagast concluded it must have been a little of both.

He gripped his staff tighter, eyes peeled against the writhing shadows that slithered up and down the trees, despite the fact it was midday. He dare not light his staff though, for that would attract the dark denizens of the mountains. Radagast hoped Norman would be all right in his scouting. Usually the Brown Wizard was able to rely on multiple beasts and birds to evaluate his surroundings, but this deep in the forest none stirred. It left him feeling nervous and twitchy.

Gandalf was muttering under his breath, as he was wont to do when faced with a puzzle he could not easily decipher. Radagast had been considering it over the past two days as well, but could not come up with any theories.

A shrill squeal pierced the silence, and Radagast sucked in a sharp breath before he charged past Gandalf. Batting branches and twigs aside, the Brown Wizard barreled upon the scene of that villainous poacher holding Norman by the scruff of his neck, staring incredulously at the creature as it thrashed and flailed uselessly in his grip.

“Unhand him you scoundrel!” Radagast shouted, bringing his staff up in preparation to strike.

The man’s brows shot up at the wizard, then glanced back at the fox in his hand. There was a rustling of foliage, and Gandalf joined them, coming at the poacher from his left.

“Well,” Gandalf grumbled. “Norman has been useful after all.”

Radagast took a menacing step forward. “Put him down before I turn you into a frog.” Actually, he might do it anyway. The man certainly deserved worse for his recent actions.

“Radagast,” Gandalf sighed in forbearance. “We need the man to talk.”

“Fine. I’ll just give him frog legs. You know, they’re considered a delicacy in some places. And they’re easier to amputate so he can stay alive and answer your questions, Gandalf.” He took smug pleasure in how the man’s eyes widened in terror.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” he stammered, and slowly knelt to set the fox on the ground. Once Norman’s feet touched earth, the fox whipped around to nip at the man’s hand. He jerked upright, out of reach. Radagast beamed proudly.

The poacher eyed the fox with a mixture of wariness and disbelief as it trotted back to Radagast. “He pounced on me first, just so you know.”

Radagast raised his staff, and the man threw his palms up placatingly.

Gandalf moved forward, both wizards now hemming him in. “What is your name?”

“Uh, Cain.”

“And are you truly from Dale, or was that a crafted lie like how you found the Prince of Mirkwood injured in the forest?”

“Yes, I am—was from Dale.”

Radagast noted how the man did not appear surprised to learn the identity of the elf he’d kidnapped. Gandalf’s bristling beard meant he had marked it too.

“What did you and your men do to the elf?” Gandalf asked.

Cain lifted his hands again. “ _We_ didn’t do anything to him.”

Radagast frowned. “You consider drugging and kidnapping nothing? And what about the other elf you slew? And the countless other animals snared in your inhumane traps, left to suffer slow, agonizing deaths over the course of _days_?”

Gandalf made a soft sound in the back of his throat, catching Radagast’s eye. The Brown Wizard reined in his temper, though just barely.

Cain hesitated, and then shrugged one shoulder sheepishly. “Man’s gotta earn a living.”

Radagast nearly leaped on the poacher then, but he held back at a warning look from Gandalf.

“And what kind of living does one earn by kidnapping the Prince of Mirkwood and then returning him home?” the Grey Wizard asked, tone low and threatening.

“I was just hired to capture an elf, that’s all. I didn’t know what she planned to do with him, nor that she’d tell us to take him back!”

Gandalf’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Who is ‘she’?”

Cain shook his head. “No. She’ll kill me.” He flicked his gaze to Radagast. “She’ll do worse than your threats.”

Radagast quirked a brow. Worse than turning this putrid specimen into a frog? Which would be an insult to the amphibian species.

“What did she do to the elf?” Gandalf pressed.

The man’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Something…evil. A spell.”

Gandalf visibly stiffened, while Norman picked up on Radagast’s resulting unease and whimpered. Sorcery as the culprit for the strange disease striking down elves? Yes, that was possible, though why hadn’t the wizards sensed it earlier? It must be a very complex, yet subtle weaving of magic. Radagast glanced at Gandalf, knowing he was thinking the same.

“Where do we find her?” the Grey Wizard asked.

“In a cave.”

“Show us.”

Cain started shaking his head again. “No, I’m not going back there.”

Radagast shifted his staff meaningfully, eliciting a scowl from the man.

“I told you, she’s more frightening than the two of you. I don’t ever want to get near her again.”

“You’ve had four days to run,” Gandalf rejoined. “Yet you are still here.”

“You think it’s easy to get away from a sorceress?” Cain hissed.

Gandalf drew his shoulders back then, and a great pall descended. The air became heavy and crackled under the increasing pressure as the wizard seemed to grow in stature and menace. Norman jumped into Radagast’s arms with a yelp.

“Do not take us for benign dotards,” Gandalf’s voice reverberated. “The Maiar have watched this world since its foundations were laid. I helped the Valar set these very stones into the mountains; do not think it would take more than a breath to wipe away an insignificant worm like you.”

Cain cowered back, arms up to shield his face. Radagast merely watched, laying a comforting hand on the trembling fox in his arms. The Brown Wizard may have been more of a pacifist in most of his dealings on Middle-earth, but for once he appreciated this side to his old friend.

“Alright!” Cain glanced fearfully between the wizards. “I’ll show you where. Just please, let me go after.”

“You have many crimes to answer for,” Radagast replied.

Cain’s eyes flashed darkly for a moment. “My friends are dead. Is that not punishment enough? We were just trying to recover from hard times. Yes, the way we went about it was…misguided and wrong. But as you pointed out, I am inconsequential next to the one you truly wish to find.”

Radagast ground his teeth. It was true: if a sorceress was behind what was happening to the elves, then apprehending her was more important than this despicable fellow. Gandalf looked equally displeased with the notion, but eventually nodded gruffly. Radagast glared at the man. Fine, they could let him go. After all, a wizard had all the time in the world to track him down again later.

Radagast jabbed the end of his staff toward Cain. “Start moving. And don’t try anything.” From the crook of his arms, Norman curled his lip and bared his tiny fangs.

Cain put his hands up and slowly turned around to weave his way through the trees, the wizards following close behind. The man led them for about half a mile to the edge of the sheer rock face where an old tree was so distorted, it appeared to be bowing its head to the ground in reverence to the mountain. Radagast eyed it curiously when Cain walked straight up to it and ducked underneath. The wizards exchanged a look, realizing how difficult it might have been for them to find this place on their own.

“Gandalf,” Radagast said in a hushed voice. “What if it’s a trap?”

The Grey Wizard took a deep breath and exhaled calmly. “Then you may turn the weasel into a frog.” With that, he started forward to enter the cave.

Norman whined, and Radagast patted him gently before setting him on the ground. “Perhaps it’s best if you wait outside, my friend.”

The fox yipped sharply in protest and ran in a tight circle before bouncing up on his back legs.

Radagast smiled. “You are brave indeed. Alright. But at the first sign of danger, hide.” He scooped Norman up again and set him on his shoulder. Then he strode after Gandalf.

The tunnel leading into the mountain had torch sconces lit and set into the rock walls every five yards. More light pulsed from a larger source deeper inside where the shaft opened up into a cavern. Radagast’s gaze immediately went to the shelves of jars and vials containing animal parts soaked in amber liquid, or dried bones and herbs simply stacked like biscuits.

“Those are not ingredients for a stew,” he uttered to Gandalf.

The Grey Wizard’s beard twitched, eyes narrowing on a stone altar in the middle of the chamber. Radagast felt a chill run up his spine as he also took in the cauldron and bundles of dried herbs with poisonous properties. How could he have missed that a witch had established herself in Mirkwood? And by the looks of things, she had been here a good long while. Preparing for this, perhaps? She had obviously gone to great trouble to target the wood-elves, and Radagast mentally berated himself for not catching it sooner.

Gandalf turned to Cain, who was standing by a table speckled with leftover herbs. “Where is she?”

The man shifted in discomfort and muttered unhappily, “Probably out looking for me.”

Well, then maybe the wizards could be the ones to set a trap for once. Radagast walked slowly around the perimeter of the cavern, scrutinizing every item and knick-knack. “What did she use for the spell?”

“I don’t know. It was ready when we brought her the elf.”

Norman jumped from Radagast’s shoulder to land on the stone table where he stuck his nose to the granite and began to sniff furiously. The fox sneezed then and looked up at the Brown Wizard with flattened ears. Radagast’s stomach clenched as Norman relayed that Legolas had been on that altar.

He whirled toward the man accusingly. “You held him down though, so you witnessed what she did.”

Gandalf’s eyes sharpened, ire darkening the shadows already cast on his face by the low fires.

Cain paled under both wizards’ glares. “I swear, I don’t know what she did. I didn’t even recognize the language she spoke when she cast it.”

Radagast was sorely tempted to turn the man into a frog after all since he appeared to be no longer useful. But then he had a thought, and canted his head at Norman. “Can you sniff out the spell ingredients?”

One tan ear flicked sideways doubtfully, but the fox pressed his snout to stone once more.

“You’re madder than her,” Cain mumbled under his breath.

Radagast huffed, but didn’t deign to respond. He merely watched and waited for the fox to find something. Gandalf moved past him to investigate the back of the cavern concealed behind one of the tiered shelf units.

It was then that Cain bent down and reached for something underneath the table. Radagast barely had time to understand the significance of the tiny muslin pouch before the man tossed it across the room and into the hearth. The bag exploded, a powerful shockwave bursting out and striking Radagast in the chest, propelling him backward into the shelves. He crashed into them with a pained cry as bottles and jars rained down upon him, showering him in broken glass and sticky substances. Dimly, he heard Norman yelp and Gandalf shout.

Radagast tried to regain his feet, but before he could, the mountain gave a massive, low groan. Silt shook loose from the ceiling, and Radagast’s eyes widened. “Gandalf!”

The Brown Wizard scrambled forward on his hands and knees, searching frantically for Norman as the ground jolted and rocks came raining down. Some smashed into pieces across the stone altar, while others knocked one of the torches off the wall. Dirt and dust filled the chamber with a murky cloud.

Hands suddenly grabbed Radagast and hauled him to his feet. He tried to shove Gandalf off, wanting to find Norman, but he could barely see. Another violent judder ripped through the entire mountain, and both wizards pitched forward to hit the ground. Radagast threw his arms up to shield his head against the pelting stones. When the bombardment finally ended and the mountain fell still, he lifted his head, blinking as his eyes watered from the sting of dust.

“Norman?” he called tentatively.

A small bark responded, and in the next moment, the tiny fox bounded over, his tawny coat covered in dirt. Radagast patted his head, sneezing at the resulting puff of powder. Next to him, Gandalf pushed himself upright with a grunt, and Radagast sensed when the Grey Wizard tensed. As he looked up through the slowly clearing haze, Radagast gulped at the mound of rocks completely filling the tunnel exit.

“Well,” he said after a moment. “I guess it was a trap after all.”

* * *

 

Cain staggered out of the cave as a cloud of dust billowed out on his heels. He plowed into the misshapen tree as the ground once more shook under his feet, and cursed as he fought his way past the prickly branches. When he finally cleared it, he tripped and sprawled to an abrupt stop at Mornince’s feet.

The woman looked down at him, lips pursed in a tight mien. After a long moment where she simply stared at him, heaving on the ground, she spoke. “Well done.”

He coughed to clear the dust from his throat, but would not dream of asking _her_ for something as simple as water. “I was almost killed,” he accused.

She waved a dismissive hand. “You weren’t even harmed, just as I said you wouldn’t be.”

Clenching his fists, Cain quickly got to his feet. Mornince strode around him and lifted her arms above her head. Deep, heavy sounding words fell from her tongue, and runes carved into the mountainside began to glow gray, then smoldered to black before disappearing.

“There,” she said. “A tomb befitting two of the Istari.”

“Are you sure that’s going to hold them?” Cain asked nervously. He’d thought those two old men were nothing to be concerned about when he first saw them, but meeting them up close today had changed his mind. Now there were people on both sides of this mess who had the ability to rip him to shreds, and would gladly do so. He was beginning to think that if he must die, a simple execution by the elves would be easier.

Mornince angled a smug look at him. “Radagast is hardly a great wizard, and Gandalf, while powerful, is still no match for me.”

Cain furrowed his brow doubtfully, but didn’t argue. “Well, what now? You’ve just buried our only shelter in these woods. It’ll be dark soon and the spiders will come out.”

Her lips twitched, as though she found that thought amusing. “We will have to make do for a little longer, but soon we will begin making our way to the Elvenking’s halls.”

Cain gaped at her. “And you’ll what, simply walk in?”

Mornince’s eyes glittered. “Oh, yes. Because by then, no one will be around to stop me.” She turned away from the cave-in, pausing at Cain’s side to tuck a finger under his chin. “Stop fretting, pet. Everything is working out exactly as I’d planned.”

Cain gritted his teeth, but didn’t say anything, and he suppressed a shudder when Mornince finally moved away from him. If he was smart, he would run now. But as he gazed around the darkening woods, he realized he had nowhere to go and no means to protect himself from the evil denizens that would soon be stirring. So with a resigned shake of his head, he turned and followed after the sorceress.


	8. Withering Leaves

_Fifty-six elves_. Legolas reeled from the latest information delivered by Nólaquen, the third elf he and Elladan had come across. The last count before Nólaquen fell asleep himself was fifty-six elves in mysterious comas. Which meant fifty-one were somewhere in this forest, lost and confused and possibly hurt. Most likely alone. Despite their best efforts, this dreamscape was simply too large, and it seemed there was no central place where one appeared after falling into a deep sleep. It was pure luck—or the grace of the Valar—that Legolas had found these few at all.

“Two have died,” the Mirkwood warrior reported grimly.

Legolas stiffened. “Ohtar?”

Nólaquen quirked a puzzled brow. “Yes. How did you…”

“We came across him,” Elladan broke in. “He was slain by a creature and…disappeared.” He flicked a look at Legolas. “We had hoped perhaps that…death, in this realm, would result in one waking.”

Nólaquen shook his head. “And Marille? Did you see her?”

Legolas closed his eyes in grief. Marille was not a warrior, but an artistic soul who devoted her time to music and helping the gardens flourish. He did not know her well, but she always played the lyre at their festivals. Of course she would not have lasted long in this place. Legolas could not stop himself from wondering whether her death had been quick, or if she had suffered horribly, terrorized by one of the woods’ creatures.

“Who you see here is all we’ve been able to find thus far,” Legolas said, gesturing to Calatar and Anaire, whom he and Elladan had come across a few days ago. Or, what seemed like it might have been days. It was impossible to tell, though Nólaquen’s report told them it had been at least eight days since Legolas had been brought home to Mirkwood. Eight days that his presence had served to infect more and more of his people. Elves were falling victim faster than he could locate them in this dreamscape, and Legolas was powerless to do anything about it.

“Has anyone made progress on identifying the cause of this?” Anaire spoke up. She held a crude bow in one hand, and only three arrows that she’d managed to construct since arriving. It was slow work with less than ideal materials, but she was an archer, and after a close brush with one of those bats, had decided a long-range weapon was necessary. Legolas missed his bow as well, yet he could not bring himself to make a temporary one; somehow, that felt like accepting they would be trapped here for a very long time…perhaps indefinitely.

“No,” Nólaquen said morosely. “The wizards went off in search of answers, but no one has heard from them since.”

“And it is too soon for my father to have arrived,” Elladan added despondently. “Has…my brother?”

“He was still awake last I heard.” Nólaquen turned to Legolas. “As was your father.”

Well, there was small comfort in that, Legolas thought bitterly. But what must his father be going through, watching his kingdom crumble around him? Watching his son waste away?

Elladan cleared his throat when Legolas did not respond. “We have been wandering in search of others, but it seems as though a large portion of the forest is uninhabited. Except for the creatures.”

Nólaquen frowned. “What kind of creatures?”

“Vicious ones,” Anaire muttered.

“Worse than Giant Spiders,” Calatar concurred. He held a spear tightly in his hand, eyes ceaselessly scanning the surrounding woods so that it looked as though he hadn’t even been paying attention to the conversation. “But they can be fought off and killed.”

He and Anaire had run into a wolf-like demon before meeting up with Legolas and Elladan. Their description of the beast was harrowing—all taut skin and thin bones, like a charred skeleton with molten eyes. But they had managed to kill it.

Nólaquen shifted nervously now, gaze flitting across the pale trees. “And to die here means…”

“I will not let that happen,” Legolas said sharply. He could not change what was happening in Mirkwood, but he could make up for what he was causing by protecting those elves currently in his company. And by continuing to tirelessly track down the others.

“Here.” He handed Nólaquen a wooden stake carved down to a sharpened point. “If you spot anything that could be used for a dagger or arrowheads, pick it up, along with twine. We need to construct as many weapons as we can.” Legolas turned to the others, noting their grim, yet staunch expressions. “Let’s move out.”

One good thing about no night in this place was they were not forced to stop because it became too dark to travel. Rather, they rested when weariness demanded. It was strange that they could feel fatigue when hunger was not an issue. Elladan had theorized that one’s _fëa_ was not nourished by food or drink, but a spirit could ‘tire’ given mental and emotional stress. Legolas just counted it a blessing considering he hadn’t found a single edible thing in this world, and they didn’t need the concern of starvation on top of everything else.

Though, he had begun to wonder about the condition of his physical body. How long had it been since he’d had food or water? Eight days in Mirkwood, but an additional four or five since he’d been captured. If his physical body died in the waking world, would his spirit still wander this endless realm until he met a second death here? Or would he be granted entrance into the Halls of Waiting?

In truth, Legolas was not sure which he wished for. Ever since arriving in this place and believing he had died, he had begun to fear that he would be forever trapped. Ohtar might have passed on, but if Legolas was the catalyst for this spell, was he tied to this dreamscape in a way the others were not? What would death do to his _fëa_? He had never worried about such things before, going into battle in Mirkwood against spiders and orcs. He fought, and if he survived, it was to fight again. But ever in the back of his mind, he knew that one day he would reach either Valinor or Mandos…and therefore see his mother again.

Yet even as he began to yearn for such an escape from this nightmare world, Legolas could not abandon his friends. As long as other elves were trapped here, regardless of what he must sacrifice, he had to stay to protect them.

After what may have been several hours, their group stopped to rest. Anaire immediately sat cross-legged on the ground and began shaving one of her sticks into a pointed arrow. Nólaquen drew Elladan aside to quietly ask more questions about this place, while Calatar took up position near a squat, blackened tree that gave him the best vantage point should anything approach.

Legolas paced the perimeter. He knew he should rest, conserve his strength for the next trek, but he was too on edge, his mind a torrent of thoughts as tangled as a spider’s web. Objectively, he knew not to blame himself for what was happening. There had been times during a patrol when a decision he’d made had led to battle and injuries. Warriors had perished under his command. It was part of the wood-elves’ lives; they all knew that each time they ventured from the palace to fight for their home, some might not return. Legolas had come to terms with losing soldiers under such circumstances.

Yet no matter how much he tried to think of this situation in rational comparison, he couldn’t. For the simple matter that it was not one or two lives at stake, nor even a whole patrol, but _every_ Mirkwood elf. And his closest friends. It was not easy to reconcile.

Anaire suddenly stepped into his path, forcing Legolas to stop. She held out the makeshift arrow she’d just finished. “It is not up to the Weapons Master’s standards, but I hope it’s sufficient.”

Legolas arched a brow at her. “I don’t need to perform weapons checks here.”

“Is it not part of a captain’s responsibility?” she replied cheekily.

He stared at her for a moment, stunned by this uncharacteristic boldness. There was compassion in her grey eyes, and also a vulnerable request—he wasn’t the only one struggling with fear and dark thoughts. And yet there was not even a hint of blame or accusation on her face.

Legolas inclined his head and accepted the shaft, lifting it up to inspect. There was no arrowhead, but one end had been tapered to a very sharp point, almost like a porcupine’s spicule. “You’ll have to shoot it within only a few feet to cause the most damage,” he said.

Anaire nodded and took it back. “A few feet can make all the difference compared to short-range daggers.”

“True. And considering the poor materials you have to work with, that is more than sufficient.”

Anaire glanced away hesitantly. “I could make you a bow as well.”

Legolas forced a wan, yet grateful smile. “Perhaps if it is needed. For now, concentrate on making enough arrows to stock a quiver.” Unlike the skillfully crafted ones in Mirkwood, these would likely only survive a single use.

“Who’s going to make the quiver?” she quipped.

Legolas almost jested that they use the Ñoldo as a pin cushion, when a sharp cry sounded from Calatar. Everyone whirled around to find the elf partially melded with the trunk of the charcoal tree, as though he had sunk into it like mud. Both his arms, thighs, and most of his torso were covered by the suddenly shifting bark. The tree creaked, followed by a resounding crack, and Calatar screamed again.

Legolas leaped forward, whipping out his dagger and immediately hacking away at the trunk. The bark rippled and undulated, tightening and hardening around its prey. Legolas’s stone blade chipped at the tree, but not fast enough. Elladan jumped in with his knife as well while Anaire grabbed Calatar’s hands, trying to pull him back out.

“Legolas!” Nólaquen shouted in warning, but not in time for the prince to dodge the branch that came swinging down to strike him in the chest.

He flew backward and hit the ground, ribs jarring painfully. As Legolas blinked up at the tree, he noticed how each of the sparse leaves had yellow spots in the center…yellow spots that were suddenly blinking and roving about like eyes.

Swallowing a surge of bile, he jumped to his feet again. This time when he attacked the tree, his granite blade sank into squishy flesh, and an ear-piercing shriek rent the air. The tree began to thrash, swinging its branches around to knock the rest of the elves away while more and more bark shifted and wavered to swallow Calatar whole.

Legolas dove out of the way of another branch, rolling into a crouch next to Anaire’s weapons. He snatched up the crude bow and the arrow she’d just completed, nocking it to the twine. He could not draw back very far for risk of snapping the bow, but as she’d said, a few feet was all that was needed. Legolas aimed up toward the tree’s crown, taking his time to find his mark. There, in the center of the thickest branch, one of those uncanny eyes rolled inside a hollow of bark. Legolas let the shaft fly.

It struck dead center, splattering the eye completely, and the tree screeched as it reeled backward. Elladan and Nólaquen hacked at the trunk, sometimes striking coarse bark, other times pulpy flesh that spewed black ichor when they wrenched the daggers out. Legolas retrieved his knife and rejoined them. Bits of charred rind and gummy pomace littered the ground, and finally the tree began to relinquish its hold. Calatar cried out in agony as Anaire pulled on his arms with all her might. One leg stumbled free, followed by the other.

Legolas changed targets and grabbed one of the flailing branches to swing up to the top of the tree where he began to slash at the twigs bearing leaves, amputating the unseemly eyes. Another blood-curdling shriek pierced his ears and Legolas lost his balance. He tumbled to the ground, landing on his back. The tree shuddered, and then several branches were flying at him, barbed ends poised to impale.

Elladan darted in at that moment and gripped Legolas’s arms to haul him up and away. One of the branches shot past the Peredhil, grazing his arm, but he didn’t stagger as he continued to push Legolas clear. Calatar had been freed, and was now hunched over far away from the tree with Anaire and Nólaquen. Legolas and Elladan stumbled toward them, and then the five of them stood there panting as they watched the tree shake and writhe. Black goo dribbled down the trunk to pool on the ground. Leaves that had been severed lay scattered about, the pupils dulled into nothing more than moldy ocher spots.

None of them moved for a long moment, but finally Legolas pulled himself together and turned to Calatar. The elf’s pallor was waxen, and he was still breathing raggedly. His left arm hung limply at his side, wide and terrified eyes fixated on the tree.

Legolas stepped into his line of sight. “Calatar, are you injured?”

The warrior blinked dazedly at him. “My arm…broken.” He let out a raspy wheeze. “Nothing…else, I think.”

Nodding, Legolas gestured to Anaire and then at the weapons lying on the ground. “We should relocate.”

Elladan ducked in to help support Calatar, while Anaire quickly scooped up their things, leaving Nólaquen’s stake and one of the daggers that was close to the tree. Even though it had stopped moving, no one wanted to risk getting near it again. Legolas cast one last wary look around before taking up position as the rearguard.

“That arrow served us well,” he said to Anaire in front of him.

She glanced over her shoulder, mouth pressed into a thin line, and nodded.

They did not go far, only enough so the black tree was completely out of sight. All of them were on edge now, shaken by such a monstrous apparition. There were trees in Mirkwood that had grown dark and hostile under the Shadow’s influence, angry and bitter with no love for any living thing, be it good or evil. Yet they never tried to _hurt_ an elf. As though something deep within their roots still remembered the Eldar waking them up and teaching them to speak. As far as Legolas had sensed, the trees in this realm had all been dead, hollow shells. Until that one.

Elladan eyed a bleached birch suspiciously as he eased Calatar down to lean against it. “I believe we’re relatively safe here. It seems the sentient beings of this world possess darker, inky complexions.”

“Do you mean to say that a black patch of dirt could grow teeth and try to swallow us?” Nólaquen asked, tone sharp with a mixture of incredulity and defensive anger.

Elladan sighed as he cut a strip off his tunic. “I don’t know.”

“We’ll rest here a while,” Legolas interjected. It was no less dangerous than any other place, save beneath a bat’s nest, but he’d scanned the tree tops and they were clear of webs. “Anaire, take up watch from above. Nólaquen will relieve you in…” He trailed off, and then waved a hand tiredly. “Whenever you deem enough time has passed.”

The two nodded, and Anaire took up the bow and few remaining arrows before climbing up a tree into a perch. Nólaquen settled down beside Calatar as Elladan began to set and splint the broken bone. Legolas drifted away to establish a wide perimeter. It was so quiet here with no breeze rustling through the withered leaves, which made Calatar’s pained grunts seem so much louder. Legolas found his own muscles clenching until it stopped.

“Distancing yourself will not protect them,” Elladan said, appearing at his shoulder a few moments later.

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

Elladan snorted softly. “I know you, _mellon nîn_. You hide your pain so they will have confidence in their captain.”

“Which is a captain’s duty,” he rejoined.

“But it isolates you,” Elladan lobbed back. “And I am not under your command.”

Legolas turned to face his friend, eyes narrowing on the bloody streak along Elladan’s upper arm. He wanted to insist that be tended, but they had no water, and even if there was some form of it in this place, in all likelihood it would be too dangerous to touch.

Elladan followed his gaze, craning his neck to get a look at the graze. “It’s not serious.”

Regardless, Legolas took his dagger and cut a jagged strip off his own tunic, which he tied around Elladan’s arm. “Explain to me how our spirits can suffer what feel like physical injuries.”

Elladan arched a wry brow. “As if you are truly interested in metaphysics and not in deflecting attention away from yourself.” He winced when Legolas knotted the makeshift bandage. “However, since you brought it up, an elf can receive wounds to the spirit, even grievous enough to cause them to fade. Here…” He shrugged his other shoulder. “They manifest as physical because that is how we comprehend them.”

Legolas slowly dropped his hands to his side. “Then…even though this and Calatar’s injury are not fatal, they could still cause you to fade?”

Elladan frowned, opening his mouth as though to protest, but then considering the question. “I suppose you could say that is what happened to Ohtar. If a wound appears physically fatal, it is because it is the equivalent of a mortal wound to the spirit.”

“And something as small as that scratch could weaken you.” Legolas staggered back a step, dread filling him anew.

Elladan’s brow furrowed. “Legolas, what—”

“You’ve been in a coma for over a week,” he said hollowly. “Longer than the others. It’s only a matter of time before your body falters, and with a wound to the spirit in addition…”

Elladan grabbed him by the arms. “Legolas, I’m fine. As I said, it is a minor injury.”

Grief and guilt constricted his chest until it became arduous to breathe. “But for how much longer?” Whether it came from within this realm or without, Legolas realized there was actually very little he could do to save those he cared for.

“This will not slow me down,” Elladan insisted. “And if you are speaking of time, then I am equally worried about you, Legolas, for _you_ have been here the longest, and your treatment at the hands of those men was less than kind. Not to mention how the weight of grief can also wound one’s _fëa_. I beg of you, don’t give in to despair, _mellon_ _nîn_. ” He was practically shaking Legolas with the fervency of his plea.

A muscle in Legolas’s jaw ticked as he fought for control over his own roiling emotions. Elladan was right; to succumb to grief would mean he would not be strong enough to help his people. _I am the son of Thranduil,_ he mentally chastised. _Of the line of Oropher. My father and grandfather stood against Sauron himself_. Even when all hope had been lost.

Legolas inhaled deeply, and then let it out. “ _Goheno nin_ ,” he murmured, asking forgiveness.

Elladan gave his arms a reassuring squeeze before releasing him. “We are all hard-pressed, but you will certainly find none in this group who lay the blame on you, Legolas. And you are not alone.”

“I know,” he said softly. “And though it is wrong for me to feel so, I am grateful for it.”

Elladan smiled. “It is not wrong.”

“ _Hir_ _nîn_ ,” a lilting voice interrupted, and Anaire silently swung down from the towering pine next to them. Legolas stiffened in preparation of an attack, but her next words were not spoken with that kind of urgency.

“You are my prince and my captain, and it is my honor to serve and protect you in whatever realm we find ourselves. Calatar has told me the same, as have many members of the Guard over the years.” She canted her head, expression softening with obvious endearment. “As steadfastly as you have been searching for us, do not think for one moment that every Mirkwood warrior who’s realized what this place is hasn’t been looking for _you_.”

Legolas blinked at the intrusive declaration, while Elladan’s lips twitched knowingly. A glance past Anaire showed Calatar and Nólaquen watching, both of whom gave him stalwart nods. After a long moment, Legolas found it within himself to genuinely smile as well. He crossed an arm over his chest and inclined his head. “You uphold your duty well, Anaire.”

“As do you, my lord.”

Legolas felt a weight lift off his shoulders with the humble reminder. It may be his duty to lead and protect his people, but one did not run out to fight battles alone. A patrol worked in tandem, everyone watching out for each other. That was how they triumphed. That was how they would survive this.


	9. Of Witchcraft and Wizardry

As the gates to the Mirkwood Palace came into view through the parting trees, Elrond felt a deep sense of foreboding fall over him. His company should have been greeted by a patrol several miles back. At the very least, guards should have made their presence known the moment Elrond pulled his steed to a stop at the edge of the bridge.

Glorfindel reined in his horse beside Elrond and whispered, “It is too quiet.”

He nodded once in agreement. Though Mirkwood elves were skilled in stealth, the silence that hung in the air was not one of sentineled waiting. Where was Gandalf? The wizard’s missive had sounded urgent, though it was sparse in detail due to little space on the scrap of parchment. All Elrond had deduced was that Mirkwood needed aid with some kind of sickness, and so he had packed supplies, gathered three of his best healers, and set out for Mirkwood, with Glorfindel insisting on escorting them. Elrond had hoped to run into his sons returning from Lorien and enlist their help as well, but they had not been seen on the road.

Glorfindel dismounted and set one foot upon the bridge, pausing as though the very act would summon forth a stream of guards. Yet none emerged. He drew his sword.

Elrond waved for the three healers to wait as he swung down as well, eyes narrowed with shrewd wariness. Something was terribly wrong here. He was so on edge that the sound of the gates creaking open actually jolted him, and his hand went to his sword. Glorfindel tensed, positioning himself slightly in front of Elrond.

An elf poked his head through the small gap in the gates, eyes wide. “Lord Elrond, you’ve come,” he breathed, sagging against the door frame.

Elrond frowned, and began moving across the bridge. “What has happened?”

The elf looked positively terrified as he glanced over his shoulder hesitantly, and then pushed the door open further. Elrond stopped short at the sight of elves lying sprawled on the ground, most pushed up along the sides of the corridor.

“By the Valar,” Glorfindel murmured behind him, taking the words right out of Elrond’s mouth.

“They sleep,” the Mirkwood guard said dejectedly. “We cannot wake them, and more fall every hour.” He gave Elrond a desperate, pleading look. “Half of our people are trapped in comas none can explain.”

Elrond sucked in a sharp breath. Of all the potential crises that had run through his mind on the journey here, this was not one of them. He beckoned the other healers to hurry forward. “What of Thranduil?”

“He is still awake and being notified of your arrival, though I don’t know if he will leave Legolas’s side.”

Elrond shot the elf a sharp look. “Legolas is afflicted?”

The guard’s face pinched with distress. “He was the first. Mithrandir and…y-your…” The elf trailed off, blinking rapidly as he began to sway. In the next instant, his eyelids slid shut and he sank to the floor.

Elrond lunged to catch him, guiding him down before he struck his head. At that moment, an inky black tendril snaked out from the guard’s collar and latched onto Elrond’s riding glove. He jerked back and tried to shake it off, but it clung with hungry ferocity, splitting and branching off like a sprouted seed. Barbed ends appeared to be trying to skewer through the leather.

Elrond ripped the glove off and threw it on the floor, leaping to his feet and stumbling back a step. He stared in horrified fascination as the tentacles writhed, gummy ends seeming to dig hooks into the floor and drag itself toward Elrond. It detached from the glove with a sticky squelch and picked up speed, scurrying like a spider.

Glorfindel’s blade arced through the air, clinking on the stone floor as it cleaved the worm in two. There was a tiny squeak, followed by a spew of black smoke. The tendrils shuddered before falling limp and then shriveling into brittle shoots.

“Father!” a familiar voice cried.

Elrond turned to find Elrohir running toward him, with Thranduil trailing behind, though he was too stunned by what had just happened to fully process seeing his son where he least expected.

“Are you all right?” Elrohir demanded. “What was that?”

Thranduil’s eyes were fixated on the black smudge on his floor, which Elrond returned his attention to for the moment.

Glorfindel poked the husk with the tip of his sword. “That,” the warrior spat. “Is black magic.”

“ _Ada_?” Elrohir worriedly asked again.

“I’m fine,” Elrond replied, looking at his son. He frowned at the dark circles under Elrohir’s eyes and the tired lines etched on his face. “What are you doing here, _ion_?”

Elrohir’s jaw tightened. “It is a long story, _ada_.”

“Don’t touch them,” Glorfindel said sharply, startling the healers who had moved toward some of the other unconscious elves. They flinched back, casting wary looks at the warrior.

Elrond’s brow furrowed. Was an evil spell responsible for what was happening here? He turned to Thranduil. “The guard mentioned Legolas was the first to be infected. Was there any sign of…that?” He waved a hand at the thing Glorfindel had slain.

Thranduil’s normally severe expression now bore as many worn lines as Elrohir’s, and his eyes were noticeably dimmer. “No,” the Elvenking finally spoke, voice completely hollowed out by weariness and grief. “We have not seen anything like that before.”

Elrohir eyed the fallen guard critically, then moved toward him and slowly crouched down.

“Elrohir!” Glorfindel reprimanded.

“I’ll be careful,” he replied, and reached for Elrond’s discarded glove, which he put on before reaching out toward the guard’s neck.

Elrond stiffened, hand poised to draw his sword and protect his son, but nothing happened when Elrohir pressed his fingers to the hollow in the elf’s throat.

After a long moment, Elrohir stood again and slipped the glove off. “I believe the spell is only active at the first contact after one falls asleep under it.” His gaze turned inward as he nodded to himself. “Yes, that explains Elladan and not me, and the next two were the guards who touched him first.” He looked toward Thranduil, brows arched as though searching for confirmation.

Elrond, however, felt a stab of dread. “What do you mean Elladan? Where is your brother?”

Elrohir’s expression turned pained. “He is in a coma as well. He was the second, after Legolas.”

Elrond almost reeled in shock, yet snapped himself out of it just as quickly. He was a trained healer, and so knew that in order to help his son, he needed to set emotion aside. “I think you should start from the beginning.”

Elrohir nodded and began the tale as he led them through the underground palace to the healing ward. The number of elves left lying around was staggering, but made sense when they finally entered the infirmary and Elrond saw that every single bed was occupied. His gaze immediately searched out his other son, and his breath caught when he spotted Elladan lying motionless in one of the beds. Elrond hurried forward, but hesitated before touching him.

“It’s all right, _ada_ ,” Elrohir said. “I have held his hand often since he fell asleep, and nothing has attacked.”

Elrond laid his palm on Elladan’s brow, startled at the cold touch. He was only half-listening to Elrohir recount events now as he tapped into Vilya, the Ring of Power he’d carried since Gil-galad had perished. Using its healing power, Elrond mentally connected with his son to determine the nature of his ailment. There was nothing physical, save the slow deterioration that came from days without proper nutrition. Elrond poured some of his healing strength into Elladan.

_You must wake, my son_ , he called. _Come back to the light_. But something wasn’t right here. Elrond delved deeper, and then jerked back, breaking contact. The voices around him suddenly cut off, and he found himself blinking at several concerned faces.

“Elrond, what is it?” Glorfindel asked, arm hovering as though to grip him should he falter.

He reached up to brace his temple, taking a moment to steady his pounding heart. “His _fëa_ is…not there.”

“What do you mean not there?” Elrohir exclaimed, rushing around the other side of the bed to cup his brother’s face. “But he still lives!”

“I did not mean he had passed,” Elrond gritted out, shaking his head as he tried to understand what he had sensed. “But his spirit is not in his body. It’s…on the other side of a veil.” He reached for Elladan again. Yes, his son’s _fëa_ was still anchored to his physical form, and yet it was somewhere else.

Looking up, Elrond spotted Legolas lying in the next bed. The prince was a ghost of his normal self, pale and wan and utterly still. Elrond moved around to his side and placed a hand on Legolas’s brow. Vilya pulsed with power, aiding Elrond in his examination, and to his horror, he discovered the same—Legolas’s spirit was also removed beyond a veil. Elrond probed at the wall tentatively, but it didn’t give. Finding Legolas in an equally weakened condition, he poured some healing energy into the prince’s body before drawing back.

Thranduil was staring at him intently. “Elrond…”

“The same,” he said.

“What does that mean?” Elrohir asked desperately.

Elrond shook his head. “I don’t know. Where is Gandalf?” If anyone knew more about dark curses, it would be a wizard.

“He has not been seen in ten days,” Thranduil replied bitterly. “Either he and Radagast found no answers…or whoever did this to my son found them instead.”

Elrond exchanged a worried look with Glorfindel. Two missing wizards, and an entire elven kingdom under some kind of magical attack that had the capacity to rip a _fëa_ from its shell… Whoever was behind this would likely make themselves known soon, especially if Thranduil’s forces kept decreasing.

“We have to stop the spread,” Elrond said, looking to the warrior.

Glorfindel nodded and drew his sword again. “We’ll need to know who recently fell asleep. Use gloves to trigger the curse and destroy it before it can find a new host.”

“We should also systematically check every elf asleep thus far, just to be certain,” Elrond added.

A muscle in Thranduil’s cheek ticked. “I will gather everyone still able to assist you.”

“We’ll work in teams of four,” Glorfindel instructed. “Not only for caution, but in case any who are still awake are already infected and collapse while working.”

“Good idea,” Elrond replied. “I will stay here. I assume those in the ward have been asleep the longest? I’ll do what I can to strengthen their bodies.”

Thranduil’s eyes drifted to Legolas. The prince’s color was only slightly better from Elrond’s ministrations, but given the number of patients, the elf-lord would have to pace himself.

“Can you bring them back, Elrond?” Thranduil asked.

He glanced back at Elladan. In truth, he did not know, for this was not something he had ever faced before. Vilya’s power gave him unique abilities to heal, but this was sorcery, and that was a whole other matter.

Elrond held back a heavy sigh. “One step at a time.”

* * *

 

“Aha!” Gandalf exclaimed, startling the little fennec fox awake from where he lay curled in a ball next to the warm hearth. “Erm, sorry, Norman.”

After being trapped in a cave for seven days with the fur ball, Gandalf had grown rather fond of the creature, so much so that he willingly gave up the last of his rations so the poor thing wouldn’t starve. Which wasn’t a terrible sacrifice, since a wizard could go longer without food than a mortal.

Radagast ceased his mumbled chanting at the caved-in rocks blocking the exit, and craned his neck to look over his shoulder. “What did you find?”

Gandalf held up the tome he’d been reading. “The spell that was cast on Legolas.” About time, too.

Eyes widening, Radagast shambled over to the altar where Gandalf set the book. Norman bounded around the wizards’ feet until one of them picked him up and set him on the stone as well. He tentatively sniffed the yellowing parchment of the ancient grimoire.

Radagast leaned over the page. “Ooh, this is dark magic, Gandalf.”

“Indeed,” he sighed. The first couple days after the cave-in trapped them here, the wizards had split their time between searching for the ingredients of the curse and trying to break the magical seal that’d been placed over the cave. Norman had actually been a help for the first, and once they’d isolated most of what the sorceress had used, then came the task of searching her spell books for what those ingredients accomplished. And now that Gandalf knew, he was even more worried.

“She’s been planning this for years,” Radagast said, voice equally concerned. “Centuries perhaps, to weave a dreamscape as complex as this.”

“And it will not be simple to dismantle.” Gandalf pursed his lips as he studied the page. In fact, it would be nigh near impossible, which he supposed was the brilliance of her plan. He had wondered why she’d willingly sacrificed her hidden cache in order to trap them, but if she had that much confidence in her plan to conquer Mirkwood, it was probably a reasonable concession to her. Whoever she was.

The Grey Wizard turned to face the wall of boulders, uttering a spell that struck the blockade, only to bounce harmlessly off. “Confound it!”

Norman mewled pitifully, earning a pat on the head from Radagast.

“Easy, Gandalf,” the Brown Wizard said absently as he thumbed through the text.

Gandalf whirled on him in frustration. “I will not! Friends I deeply care about are trapped in a vicious nightmare realm with no hope of escaping. We might— _might_ —be able to help them, if only we could get out of this blasted cave! Now are you going to get back to helping me or not?”

“Mornince.”

Gandalf sputtered. “What is that?”

“Not what, who.” Radagast slid the book to the edge of the altar, tapping a finger to the middle of the page. “She is our sorceress.”

Arching a brow, Gandalf scanned the parchment, which appeared to be a personal record. His jaw slackened as he read further, the words on the page filled with such vitriol that he could almost feel the acerbic emotions behind the penmanship. Evidence of it was also noticeable in the thick ink lines where someone pressed extremely hard while writing, and even poked holes through the paper in a few places.

“She is one of the Avari,” he muttered. A ‘Dark Elf,’ named for refusing Oromë’s call to journey to Valinor long before the First Age of Middle-earth. They were not generally evil, though this one had obviously become a student of Melkor.

“I thought they had all faded by the end of the Second Age,” Radagast said.

Gandalf made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat. “This one was apparently only in hiding.”

“She has quite the grudge against Oropher and Thranduil.”

Gandalf clenched his jaw. _Indeed_. It seemed this Mornince had set her sights on ruling Greenwood the Great, once upon a time, and had attempted to seduce Oropher in order to become his Queen. When that failed, she redirected her efforts toward Thranduil, who also rebuffed her. After it was discovered she was aiding Sauron, she was banished, and then never seen again.

“We _need_ to get back to the palace,” Gandalf pressed. “It has been too long already.” Now that he knew what curse had been laid upon the elves, he greatly feared that Mirkwood had already fallen.

Radagast made a low humming noise and walked back to the barrier where he picked up his staff. “Hm, so there’s that, then this piece there.” The Brown Wizard moved his hands around as though fiddling with invisible knobs.

Gandalf cast a commiserative look at Norman, who by now was probably the saner one in his company. Then there was a sharp crack, and the mountain lurched. The fox leaped onto Gandalf’s shoulder and tried to duck under his beard as silt crumbled from the ceiling. A split second later, the rocks blocking the exit exploded outward with a resounding boom.

Gandalf coughed and waved his arm through the cloud of dust, grimacing when Norman’s claws frantically dug into his shoulder for purchase. “Radagast?”

His friend’s face suddenly appeared before him. “There, we can go now.” Scooping up the grimoire, Radagast turned on his heel and strode toward the cleared tunnel.

“Wh—” Gandalf scooped up his staff, snatched the fox from his shoulder to carry in his arm, and hurried after the other Istar. “How did you do that?” he demanded. Gandalf had tried everything he could think of, from disarming seals to brute force, none of which had worked. And _Radagast_ had brought it down with barely any effort!

The Brown Wizard squinted at him as they emerged into daylight for the first time in a week. “Oh, I found her name woven into the spell and simply rewrote it backwards.”

Gandalf pulled up short, and not because he was half-blind as his eyes adjusted. “You…wrote the author of the spell’s name…backwards?”

Radagast shrugged, and then lifted a hand to his brow to shield his eyes. “Ah! They finally made it.” He hobbled through some briars until he came to a herd of Rhosgobel rabbits hitched to a wooden sleigh.

Gandalf stared at his wizard friend dumbly as Radagast happily scratched each of the hares behind their ears. He glanced at the fox in his arm, who bent one giant ear back in confusion. A chuckle worked its way up in Gandalf’s chest, and he started shaking his head. He would never underestimate the Brown Wizard again.

Radagast climbed onto the back of the sled. “Come on, Gandalf!”

He surged forward to board the sleigh as well, sending a prayer to the Valar that they wouldn’t be too late.


	10. On the Edge of a Knife

Elladan stood absolutely still, eyes closed and head tilted up toward the pewter sky. This was a dream world, which meant mind ruled over matter. Or, at least it should have in theory. So far his tests had proven unsuccessful.

“What are you doing?” Anaire’s voice interrupted his concentration.

He opened one eye to look at her before abandoning the effort altogether. “I am trying to extend my senses beyond this immediate area.”

She quirked a brow. “Is that a Ñoldorin ability?”

Elladan’s lips twitched. “No. But we are in a spirit realm, so it logically follows that one need not be constrained by physical limitations. I am hoping to get a better sense of this place overall, and perhaps even reconnect a small part of my consciousness to my body.” If he could pierce the shroud encapsulating this world just a little, he might be able to access his bond with Elrohir and send a message. Not that he had any skill or practice with long-range communication, but his grandmother, Galadriel possessed the ability, and so perhaps Elladan could harness it as well, at least on some small scale.

Anaire’s face scrunched up dubiously. “Did it work?”

At that, Elladan sighed. “No, not yet.”

“Oh.”

Elladan looked over to where Legolas was helping Calatar to his feet. “We are moving out again?”

“Yes,” Anaire replied, tone clipped as she tried to conceal her weariness. It was an endless cycle—walk, rest, walk some more.

Even Elladan, who had tried to remain optimistic and supportive, was beginning to feel the weight of hopelessness on his heart. He missed his brother. Not that he wanted Elrohir to be in this place, but even in dire situations, as long as they were side by side, Elladan at least knew his twin was alright. But if their positions were reversed and Elladan was the one on the outside watching Elrohir decline with no idea what was happening to him or how to help…Elladan knew he’d be a wreck. And while he had promised Legolas that he would not be defeated by this dreamscape, his greatest fear was that should he end up dying here, Elrohir would fade as well.

And so Elladan kept pushing the limits of his mental faculties, determined to punch through this incorporeal prison. Unfortunately, his increasing sense of desperation was causing him to split his attention between his introspective efforts and his surroundings. Part of it was he had confidence in their group’s diligence, but he should have known better.

Elladan heard a strange whomping sound that he only recognized as wingbeats a moment too late. Something slammed into him from behind, knocking him face forward onto the ground. A shrill shriek pierced his eardrums as several sharp points dug into his back. He furled his fingers into the dirt, trying to crawl out from under whatever had attacked him, but then the weight lurched off.

Elladan rolled onto his back, heart leaping into his throat at the sight of yet another otherworldly terror. Legolas stood between him and a large, winged creature the size of a horse. But while the torso and feathers resembled a bird, it had a serpentine neck and a bulbous head with a nubby, sharpened beak. Legolas slashed at the demon’s belly, which it avoided with a flap of its massive wings.

The others were running forward now, weapons raised. With an ear-splitting screech, the beast spun around midair, brandishing a spiked tail like a whip.

“Duck!” Elladan shouted.

Everyone dove to the ground to avoid getting skewered, but then the creature pounced on Legolas, digging four-inch talons into his side. Legolas threw his head back with a sharp cry. He tried to stab the monstrous bird, but a nip from the beak caused him to drop his dagger. With a great flap of its wings, it lifted into the air, carrying Legolas in its clutches.

Elladan leaped to his feet and sprinted after them. The heavy wings beat the air as the creature struggled to gain altitude. Elladan spurred forward and launched himself off a tree stump to grab the tail. He managed to grip above the spikes, though one of them sliced his wrist as he flailed and hung on for dear life.

The beast shrieked and juddered, its weight distribution disrupted. Elladan kicked empty air, and then the demon banked sharply, heading straight into a tree. Elladan braced himself for impact, pain slamming into his shoulder and side as they struck. He lost his hold on the tail and dropped to the ground, thankfully landing in a bed of moss. Legolas crashed down beside him while the creature scrambled for purchase on the branches above.

Elladan frantically searched for his dagger, but he must have dropped it. An arrow whizzed above his head, tearing through a wing. The demon screamed and twisted around, elongated neck flicking back and forth. Anaire skidded to a stop at the base of the tree and shot another arrow, this time striking its belly. Nólaquen joined her, scooping up rocks and lobbing them at the beast.

Calatar appeared at Elladan’s side, and though his broken arm was in a sling, he still tried to pull Legolas up and away. Both of them stumbled in the mesh of moss, and Elladan scrambled to pry the clumps away from their feet. Blood roared in his ears and his head pounded with each grating screech that sounded from above. He heard the whomp of flapping wings, and grabbed both Legolas and Calatar to shove them down, but there was no puff of air to signal the demon descending on them. Craning a look over his shoulder, Elladan watched it soar into the sky and veer away from the elves’ harmful projectiles.

He turned back to Legolas, whose complexion had gone a few shades too pale and his eyes were squinting with pain. One arm was wrapped protectively over his stomach, his hand pressed to his side. Blood welled up and trickled between his fingers.

Elladan’s breath stole away. “Let me see.” He wrenched Legolas’s hand up, and his heart stuttered at the deep punctures and gashes torn from the prince’s lower left rib to his hip. “We need to find shelter,” he snapped at Anaire and Nólaquen. Both of them just stared back at him dumbfounded.

“We passed a hollow several yards back,” Calatar spoke up, shooting Anaire a severe look.

The archer shook herself out of her daze. “I remember.”

Elladan nodded. “Legolas, can you make it?”

Legolas’s jaw was clenched so tight he barely got a response out. “Must.”

Elladan switched places with Calatar, pulling Legolas’s arm over his shoulder and planting his other hand firmly on the prince’s side. Legolas swallowed a grunt of pain. Calatar took the lead while Anaire and Nólaquen flanked Elladan and Legolas, eyes peeled for further danger. Legolas’s weight grew heavier with each step, and several times Elladan had to stop to hike his friend’s arm higher over his shoulder.

Finally, Calatar halted and pointed to a small mound that had been partially hollowed out under a dehydrated oak, shriveled roots poking through hard-packed dirt. “What if…?” he started.

Elladan glanced between him and the tree. “It’s not,” he assured him. This tree had an ivory shade, not black. At least, Elladan had to trust that it wouldn’t come alive and try to eat them. But Legolas was growing lax in his arms and they had no other choice. He eased the prince down to lean against the scarp wall.

“What do you need?” Anaire asked.

_Needle, thread, athelas, bandages_ , he thought—none of which they had.

“Set up…perimeter,” Legolas ground out, shifting in obvious distress.

“Be still,” Elladan chastised, ripping off his own tunic.

Legolas shot him a defiant glare before flicking his eyes to Anaire. “Don’t know…what…blood might attract.”

Though the archer looked as though she wanted to stay, she gave a sharp nod before barking orders to Calatar and Nólaquen.

Elladan folded his tunic over as many times as he could and pressed it to Legolas’s wounds. The prince arched his back against the wall of earth, face screwing up though he only let a strangled sound escape his lips. Elladan clamped a hand on his shoulder to push him back down.

“You’ll be fine, Legolas. This is nothing.”

He snorted. “Isn’t it…a healer’s rule not to…” He grimaced. “Lie to their patient?”

Elladan squeezed Legolas’s shoulder so hard his fingernails were probably leaving crescent shaped indents. “Look at me.” He waited half a beat for Legolas’s eyes to rove upward. “The wounds aren’t physical, remember? Which means you _can_ overcome them!”

Legolas rolled his head from side to side, smearing soil in his already dirty hair. “It certainly…feels real.”

Elladan’s stomach clenched. “I know, but I don’t have anything to…I have nothing I can…” He swallowed hard, gaze dropping to the blood soaked tunic. None of his training aided him now where he had no water or supplies, and for the first time, he viciously cursed the men who had brought this upon his friend, praying their afterlife consisted of eternal torment in the likes of this place.

“It’s all right, Elladan,” Legolas said softly.

Shaking his head, he reached up to cup Legolas’s face. “Please, _mellon nîn_ , you can fight this. Just hold on.”

Legolas’s breathing was becoming shallow, and Elladan could feel tremors running through him. _Please, Valar, save him_ , he pleaded. He pressed down harder on the wounds, willing them to stitch closed by his sheer will alone. But just as when Elladan had tried to breach the boundaries of this world, he could not. For all that he had convinced himself none of this was physically real, the crimson evidence to the contrary was staring him in the face.

Clouded blue eyes remained locked on his, more sad than anything else. Elladan’s chest constricted, and he dropped his head forward to rest against Legolas’s.

“I’m here, _mellon nîn_ ,” Elladan whispered. “Stay with me.”

* * *

 

“We’ve checked everyone, and are confident we’ve snuffed out the last of the curse lying in wait,” Glorfindel reported.

Thranduil nodded absently. He wanted to feel grateful for the elf-lord’s assistance, and he did. But half his people remained trapped in comas, including his son. The small progress the teams of healers and warriors had made in drawing out the malicious contagion was hardly a victory. And the good news had also come with the grievous discovery of several more elves who had perished in their sleep without anyone noticing before, simply fading without a sound.

Glorfindel was looking at him with sympathy, something Thranduil did not care for. “My lord, by your leave, I would like to organize the guards you have left and tighten the defenses.”

Yes, because his kingdom stood on the edge of a knife and could still fall.

“Very well,” he replied. “Thank you.” It should not have burned him so to accept help from a Ñoldo. Neither Elrond nor Glorfindel would lord it over his head, and yet old prejudices were sometimes difficult to overcome.

Thranduil returned to the healing ward and went straight to his seat by Legolas’s bed. He stiffened when he spotted Elrohir slumped in the other chair, and for a brief second of panic, wondered if Glorfindel had been wrong. But then he noticed that the young Peredhil’s eyes were open in natural elven sleep.

Elrond looked up from where he stood over his other son, brow furrowing at the look on Thranduil’s face.

The Elvenking cracked his neck. “I thought for a moment…”

Elrond followed his gaze to Elrohir, and his expression relaxed in understanding. “I convinced him to get some rest, now that he knows there is nothing to fear by sleeping.”

“Ah. That is good.” Thranduil sank into his chair and automatically reached for Legolas’s hand. He hated how cold and lax it was.

“I would urge you to do the same.”

Thranduil ignored the advice. “Glorfindel believes they have hunted down the last dormant parts of black magic,” he said instead, and caught the Ñoldo shaking his head in his peripheral vision.

“It’s a start, at least,” Elrond replied. “But I am still at a loss on what to do for the others.” His gaze dropped to his comatose son. “We should consider sending a small patrol after Gandalf.”

Thranduil’s jaw clenched. Part of him scornfully assumed that the wizards had gotten distracted by something. He did not know if that was better or worse than the more likely scenario that the two Istari were no match for whoever had cast such dark magic to begin with. And if the latter was truly the case, then what chance did the elves have to stand against it?

He swallowed hard, afraid his voice would waver with his next question. “How long can you sustain them like this?”

Elrond sighed, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Elladan’s ear. “As of right now, several days at least. But the longer everyone else remains asleep and the more I have to spread my efforts among them…” He did not finish, yet he didn’t have to. Thranduil understood. In trying to save them all, more would die sooner. Yet how could he choose who to focus on and who to abandon? No, he could not sacrifice anyone, not like this.

_Even if it means you have to watch your son wither away?_ Legolas was already thinner, cheeks sunken and patches under his eyes looking bruised. This curse was draining his life, and why couldn’t the most renowned healer in Middle-earth _do_ something?

Thranduil tamped down on his anger. He did not truly blame Elrond, who had to be feeling the same anguish for his own son. It didn’t make it easier for the Elvenking to bear though. He had lost so much in his long years, and Legolas was all he had left, the last living reflection of his wife, and the one glimmer of hope in a world that had long ago fallen into Shadow.

Thranduil squeezed his son’s limp hand, and frowned as a strange sense prickled the back of his neck. His eyes narrowed on Legolas’s face, studying it for a long moment before drifting down to his chest. Thranduil’s heart seized, and he surged from his chair with enough force to knock it over.

“Elrond, he’s not breathing.”

The elf-lord had whipped his head up at the chair falling, and now spurred around Elladan’s bed, bumping Elrohir as he wedged himself close to Legolas and laid one hand upon his chest, the other across his forehead.

Elrohir jerked awake with a gasp. “Father? What’s happening?”

Elrond gritted his teeth. “He’s fading.”

The younger elf scrambled around to the foot of the bed, eyes wide and anxious. Thranduil was practically vibrating with impatience and worry as he watched Elrond close his eyes in concentration. A second later, a blue glow began to suffuse from his hand that bore the ring Vilya. The soft hue swirled over Legolas’s chest and then started seeping in. For several long moments, Elrond poured healing energy into the frail prince, mumbling exhortations for him to breathe.

Thranduil did not want to watch him fail, but could not look away. The light decreased to a low, steady pulse, though Legolas’s chest remained still. After an agonizingly long time, Elrond pulled his one hand back, extinguishing that ethereal glow, and grief like a dagger plunged through Thranduil’s heart.

“He’s stable now,” Elrond said, voice a little rougher than normal.

Thranduil nearly snapped his spine he straightened so fast. _What…?_ Staggering forward, he placed his hand on Legolas’s chest where Elrond’s had been, and nearly sagged when he felt a shallow rise and fall.

“Father?” Elrohir asked tentatively, and took Elrond’s elbow to help him sit in the chair. Elrond didn’t remove his other hand from Legolas’s brow.

“It was not his physical body that initially failed, but his _fëa_ ,” the elf-lord explained. “I was able to force his lungs to work, but it took a great deal of effort to channel most of the healing energy through the veil to his spirit.”

“But you managed?” Elrohir pressed.

“Yes.” Elrond reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I wish I could say such a foray weakened the wall, but I don’t think it did. I could not call him back.”

Thranduil eyed Elrond carefully, finally understanding the Ñoldo’s healing was not a bottomless well, and that such efforts would eventually take a greater toll on him. “Thank you,” he said softly, letting his palm continue to rest on his son, just to assure himself that he yet lived.

Elrond looked grieved as he turned his gaze to Legolas’s face, hand still braced upon his forehead as though providing a life line. “I do not know how long my intervention will last. Without knowing what is happening to their _fëar_ …I do believe that was the cause of death for the other elves, not that their bodies failed.”

Thranduil’s throat constricted. Something that could destroy an elf’s _fëa_ … He sank onto the side of the bed, wrapping his fingers around Legolas’s hand.

_Be strong, my son._ He closed his eyes. It had been a long time since he’d asked the Valar for anything, not since his father was slain in Dagorlad. Now, however, Thranduil was not too proud to pray. _And may the Valar guide you home_.

* * *

 

Elladan jerked back as warm energy swelled beneath him, and Legolas suddenly heaved in a huge gasp of air. Blue eyes blinked dazedly before gazing up at him in confusion. In the back of his mind, Elladan registered that the aura he’d just felt seemed familiar, but it was gone in a flash and he was more focused on the present moment, namely lifting the compress and gazing in shock at the half-closed wounds. They had stopped bleeding as well.

“Legolas?” he breathed in disbelief.

“Elladan?” Legolas shifted to push himself up straighter, wincing as he did so. He glanced down at his side and stared dumbly for several moments. Slowly and carefully, he reached one hand up to prod the swollen flesh, wincing from the touch.

“Don’t do that,” Elladan scowled, gently smacking his hand away.

Legolas roved his gaze around the hollow and forest outside. “I thought I was dying.”

“I thought you were too.” Elladan felt some of the tension drain from his muscles, but didn’t let himself sink into complacency. “I’m going to bind these now.”

Despite Legolas’s miraculous recovery, he was still weak, and Elladan had to hold him up while wrapping the soiled tunic around his waist and tucking the ends in as securely as he could. Elladan decided not to worry about infection, not that he could realistically do anything to prevent it. He would just have to hope that it wasn’t included on the list of dream injuries one was susceptible to here.

“You did it, _mellon nîn_ ,” he said with a smile. “I knew that Sindarin stubbornness would win out.”

Legolas furrowed his brow. “I didn’t do it alone.”

Elladan straightened. “What do you mean?”

“I…don’t know. Only that when I felt myself slipping, something—or someone—latched on and wouldn’t let go.”

“Did you hear a voice?” Elladan asked, excitement flitting through him. He could guess who had come to Legolas’s rescue, and hope filled him anew.

Legolas shook his head. “No. But maybe…feelings, emotions. Mostly I felt strength pour through me and the urge to breathe, though those seemed to come from without, as though forced upon me.”

Elladan pursed his lips. That was not the way his father’s healing magic usually worked, but then again, this was a very unusual circumstance. In any case, Legolas was _alive_.

Elladan clasped his shoulder. “Take heart, _mellon nîn_. Help is trying to reach us.”

Legolas drew in a deep breath before giving a resolute nod. His injuries were still severe, and they would have to rest a while for him to regain his strength, but Elladan was confident he could recover from this. There was still a fight to be had.


	11. Checkmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Glorfindel’s character, I decided to go with the interpretation of him being the reincarnated Glorfindel of Gondolin, even though that version cannot be considered strictly canon since it came from Tolkien’s notes.

 

Glorfindel paced the winding paths carved throughout the mountain cavern, eyes roving over the bodies of elves who lay sleeping on the steps or in hollowed out nooks. On platforms above and below, healers moved among the comatose checking to see if they still lived. The sight reminded Glorfindel of ancient battlefields where elves had been slain and scattered across a gore-smattered vista. There was no blood to paint this scene, yet it was disturbing nonetheless, and it was difficult not to think of these poor souls as beyond all aid. Prince Legolas was hanging by a thread, and Elladan would not be far behind. Glorfindel decided that if Gandalf did not return soon, he would go himself to find the wizard.  
 ****

A resounding crash had him whipping his head toward the palace gates, which were swinging loosely on their hinges after having been blown open by some great force. Glorfindel dearly hoped that was just Mithrandir’s way of making a grand entrance, and not that they were under attack. Drawing his sword, he bolted down the stairs, leaping from bridge to bridge to reach the entrance faster.

Guards were already there, bows and swords aimed at two figures who strode through the doors. Glorfindel drew to a stop, eyes narrowing on the lithe woman who led the way. Her bearing was calm, chin held high, and dark eyes flicked casually over all the weapons aimed her way. Behind her, a scrawny man shuffled his feet nervously, and Glorfindel’s suspicions immediately spiked.

“Who are you?” he demanded, pushing through the wall of guards.

The woman focused her attention on him, and for a brief moment, he thought she looked surprised, but she quickly covered it. “I’ve come to see King Thranduil.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Her lips twitched in a smirk, and she slowly lifted her hands to unwind the scarf about her head. Sable silk rippled to the ground, releasing a cascade of dark tresses. Hushed murmurs spread through the guards, and Glorfindel stiffened. She was an elf.

“I think the Elvenking would like to hear what I have to say.”

Jaw clenching, Glorfindel jerked his head. One of the soldiers broke formation to run down the passage to the healing ward. The female elf took a step forward, and Glorfindel adjusted his sword to point at her chest.

She lifted a delicate brow. “Is it not customary to greet guests before the throne?”

“Guests do not usually break down doors,” Glorfindel retorted. He cast a look over her shoulder, but did not spot any sign of an army waiting outside. Was it just her and this _adan_? The man looked uncomfortable, as though he had little confidence in the two of them standing against a dozen armed guards. The dark-haired elf, however, did not seem the least bit perturbed. In fact, even though she was an intruder and radiated malevolent intent, Glorfindel could see the Mirkwood warriors wavering; they did not draw upon their kin lightly.

Hurried footsteps signaled more arrivals, and Glorfindel glanced briefly behind him to find Thranduil and Elrond marching toward them. Thranduil’s eyes widened when he saw the female elf, and apparent shock nearly drew him to a stop before reaching them. The guards in the center parted to let the elf-lords through, though Glorfindel made sure to stay slightly in front of them, for they were unarmed.

“Mornince,” Thranduil said, voice low and almost soft with disbelief.

“Thranduil,” she replied smugly. “And Elrond as well. Oh, excuse me, _Lord_ Elrond now. Twas such a shame about Gil-galad.”

A muscle in Elrond’s jaw ticked. “Mornince. Where have you been for the past two thousand years?”

Glorfindel kept his surprise hidden as he scrutinized this strange elf. If Elrond knew her from the Second Age, that would explain why Glorfindel did not recognize her, for he had missed a great deal from that time period.

Mornince lolled her gaze back to Thranduil, a lascivious glint in her dark eyes. “Had you thought I perished?”

Thranduil’s demeanor remained outwardly unaffected. “I had not given you a single further thought after your banishment.”

Her expression darkened, and the air seemed to crackle. Glorfindel tensed, knuckles whitening around the hilt of his sword.

“Perhaps you should have,” she spoke, tone low and menacing.

“Are you responsible for this?” Thranduil asked, voice tight now as he raised an arm to encompass the fallen elves visible behind them.

Mornince’s mouth curved into a grin. “It was a pleasure to meet your son. He reminded me so much of Oropher—a fighter, but such gentle eyes.”

Thranduil’s nostrils flared and he surged forward, but Elrond grabbed his arm and Glorfindel shifted to body block the king, sword still pointed at the elf-witch.

Mornince laughed. “I told you that you would be mine, did I not? Soon you and the rest of Mirkwood will be under my spell.” She cast each elf a cutting look, settling on the Ñoldor last. “I must say that Lord Elrond and the Balrog Slayer will also make delightful prizes.”

Glorfindel frowned at her ability to recognize him. That meant she was quite old, as old as Galadriel perhaps. Had he met her in the First Age? It was difficult to say, as his memories from Gondolin were sparse and hazy at best.

“I’m afraid those are prizes you will never see,” he said. “We discovered the method of how the curse spread and have eradicated it. No more elves have fallen into sleep since yesterday.”

Mornince stared at him blankly for a moment, as though trying to decide if he was bluffing. She seemed that confident in her spell, and Glorfindel couldn’t help but smirk with pleasure that she hadn’t expected it to be thwarted.

The man behind her let out a soft snort, muttering under his breath, “Exactly as you’d planned, right.”

She spat a hiss over her shoulder at him. Glorfindel narrowed his gaze on the _adan_ ; he must be the one who’d kidnapped Legolas. There were a great many punishments the elf-lord wanted to visit upon him right then, but that would have to wait. As though sensing the vengeful thoughts, the man began to fidget and glance back toward the open doors.

“Your plan has failed,” Elrond spoke up. “Tell us how to undo the spell and we will deal with you fairly.”

Thranduil made a low noise in his throat that suggested he did not agree with that, but he remained stoically silent.

Mornince glared at him. “Failed? Half of Mirkwood has fallen. I do not call that a defeat.”

“We will break the curse one way or another,” Elrond insisted.

“With what?” she scoffed. “You are not wizards. And the two Istari will not be coming back to help you, either.”

Glorfindel stiffened, and exchanged an alarmed look with Elrond. Could she truly have defeated the wizards? Elrond’s mouth nearly disappeared in a thin line, and the flicker of doubt did nothing to reassure the warrior.

Mornince returned her sharpened gaze to Thranduil. “Suppose there was a simple way to break the spell? Such as cutting off where it originated…the first elf to succumb.” She grinned manically again. “Kill your son, and the threads binding everyone who fell after will be snipped.”

Silence filled the mountain as no one spoke, though Glorfindel could feel the Elvenking nearly vibrating with boiling ire.

Mornince pursed her lips into a thoughtful moue. “Can you do it, though? What would his mother think? Or is she already sleeping?”

Glorfindel sidestepped instinctively, and Thranduil collided with his shoulder as the king tried to push past him again. The Ñoldo warrior flung one arm out to stay him while shooting a scathing look at the sorceress. “If we are speaking of the source, I suggest we try cutting off your head to break the spell.”

Mornince hissed at him viciously. “You are welcome to try.” Then she lifted her chin and raised her voice to fill the underground cavern. “I know they appear to be sleeping peacefully, but I assure you they are all suffering unimaginable horror. You all have a loved one trapped in this state, I am sure. Remove the prince, and you can save them.”

Glorfindel jerked ramrod straight, sweeping his gaze around the Mirkwood elves perched on the bridges and platforms, calculating how quickly he could dash back to the infirmary. Elrohir was still there, and would protect Legolas… But as Glorfindel’s heart rate spiked wildly, he noticed that none of the other elves had moved, nor had even cast a hesitant glance toward the healing ward. All of them kept silently staunch and defiant gazes on the elf-witch.

“One thing you could never understand, Mornince,” Elrond spoke up in a level voice. “And therefore could never inspire, is the steadfast devotion and love the elves of Mirkwood have for their king and prince. You tried to gain it once through trickery and deceit, but you will never conquer it.”

Her cheeks had begun to puff red with fury, and once again Glorfindel felt a sizzle on the air, like the plains during summer rains that heralded a storm. A twinge of nervousness rippled through the guards.

“Where did you put their _fëar_?” Elrond demanded.

“In a dreamscape,” she spat before working to smooth her expression once more. “An endless realm full of delicious terrors that will hunt them down one by one for eternity.”

Glorfindel sucked in a sharp breath. A dream world…then the comatose elves were potentially together.

Mornince paused, canting her head thoughtfully. “I will tell you the truth on how to break the curse. The prince is the key, as I said, and every realm has a backdoor. If your son finds the exit and slays its gatekeeper, all the elves’ spirits will be released.”

Glorfindel couldn’t help but exchange a doubtful look with Elrond. She had no reason to tell them the truth, now or ever. They should just seize her and be done with this useless exchange of barbs and threats. He shifted to close in on her, eyeing the squirrelly human so he wouldn’t escape either.

“However,” she said, spearing Thranduil with a glittering glare. “There’s no way for your son to know what to look for, or any guarantee he will succeed.”

“You do not know him,” Thranduil ground out.

She shot him a patronizing smirk. “He is your son, is that it? You know…” She tapped a finger to her chin. “One of his bloodline could serve as a key as well. What do you say, Thranduil? Would you willingly go into my world to challenge my gatekeeper? Or leave it all to your son?”

Glorfindel’s mind immediately recalled how close Legolas had come to fading. What horrors was he battling in that spirit world, and would he have the strength to face this gatekeeper?

“Thranduil,” Elrond said in warning. “You cannot trust her.”

Glorfindel glanced at the Elvenking and saw two opposing resolves warring within his eyes—that of a ruler and that of a father.

“I must warn you,” Mornince spoke up again, tone deceptively laced with saccharine concern. “Should the prince die in that realm, the portal will be sealed.” The corner of her mouth curved upward. “Forever.”

* * *

 

Legolas’s eyelids flickered open, and he blinked at the now familiar roots dangling above his head. How was it that he could sleep when he was already dreaming? The absurdity almost made him snort in amusement. Almost.

He shifted, wincing as the movement tugged his wounds. They were healing though, he felt sure of that. He was tempted to pick at the makeshift bandage and inspect them, but Elladan would throw a fit. Glancing around, Legolas noted that the Peredhil was gone, and the immediate vicinity outside the hollow was completely quiet. He pushed himself forward and inched out, leg muscles cramping from being tucked in that small space for a prolonged period.

When he finally straightened, Legolas went rigid. Half the trees surrounding him were covered in glistening white webs, huge sections of mesh draped between trunks to create a partial enclosure. Legolas whirled around in search of the others—how could he not have heard anything!—and staggered under a wave of dizziness. His injuries were still taking their toll. He shot one hand up to brace his head, and as his vision focused, his heart seized at the sight of a giant bat hanging upside down from a branch to his left, trails of goop spiraling from its mouth as it wove a bulging cocoon to the tree’s trunk.

Ignoring the flare in his side, Legolas scooped up a gnarled branch and swung as hard as he could at the creature. The wood struck with a resounding crack that sent the bat flying through the air and crashing to the ground with a squeal. Legolas nearly doubled over, but managed to hold himself up with the branch as the bat squirmed and juddered, its pitiful mewls grating his ears. Yet it appeared to be crippled, so Legolas whipped back to the cocoon it’d been weaving. The six-foot cocoon.

Legolas’s heart dropped into his stomach. _Valar, no_. He stumbled forward and began clawing at the webbing. Sticky gossamer threads peeled apart, some pieces fluttering away while others clung to his fingers. He frantically ripped more of the seams loose until he found a pale, raven-haired head underneath.

“Elladan!” Legolas cupped his friend’s face, terror surging through him at the closed eyes. He patted Elladan’s cheeks, but got no response. With his pulse fluttering erratically and upsetting his already precarious balance, Legolas tore at the rest of the cocoon. He barely got the webbing off Elladan’s shoulders when something slammed into his side and knocked him to the ground. Pain flared through his injured side as he rolled onto his back, gasping for air.

In his peripheral vision, he could see a second bat flapping leathery wings to hover in midair. Legolas groaned and tried to force himself to get up, but before he could, a sheet of white dropped down from above, covering him like a net. Sticky tendrils adhered to his skin and clothes, completely inhibiting his ability to move.

The dark blob that had dropped the web glided over to alight on the trunk of another tree, which Legolas now realized also held a tightly spun cocoon. The other bat flapped over to Elladan and perched on the Peredhil’s chest. Legolas watched in mounting horror through the webbing’s gaps as the creature opened its mouth and sank its fangs into Elladan’s neck.

“No!” He writhed and struggled under the unyielding net, hair getting tangled across his face and mouth as more dark shapes descended to land on two more cocoons. The horrible sounds of sucking and slurping reached Legolas’s ears before his pounding heart drowned it out in a roaring deluge of panic.

His arms could barely move, and so he stretched his fingers as hard as he could, grasping for anything he might use to break free. He managed to get his hand out from underneath the web, and it brushed against a familiar piece of jagged granite. Pulse spiking, Legolas desperately tried to grip the dagger. All he had to do was turn it around and saw through the strands…

A chitter nearby sent chills up his spine, and he craned his head to see the bat he’d hit crawling across the ground toward him, one wing joint bent at an awkward angle. Orange eyes flared venomously as it limped forward and flopped on top of his chest. Legolas tried to buck, but he just couldn’t _move_.

Nubby claws pinched his tunic as the bat hauled itself up to leer above his head. The maw opened wide, and with a delightful screech, the bat lashed downward. Intense pain pierced Legolas’s neck, tearing a strangled scream from his throat. The demon’s body shuddered as it sucked sharply. Legolas felt hot liquid trickle down his neck and his vision blurred. His dimming gaze sought out his friends, each one pinned by a bulbous bat also feasting on their blood. It was the last image seared into his brain as his eyes slid closed under a wash of agony.


	12. Choices

The tension in the underground palace weighed heavier than the mountain on top of them. Mornince’s words echoed in Elrond’s head. _‘If Legolas dies’_ …Elladan and all the other elves would be lost. Legolas had come close already, and suddenly Elrond felt the urge to rush back to the healing ward and check on the prince.

“Well, Thranduil?” Mornince spoke up, holding out her hand suggestively. “Would you like a peek?”

Thranduil stared at her hard for a long moment, in which Elrond was afraid the Elvenking would do something brash. Glorfindel had shifted his posture so that he appeared ready to move against either the elf-witch or Thranduil himself. But the Sindarin lord had not survived his millennia by faltering under dire circumstances.

“Seize them,” he said. The command was given in a low voice, though the guards heard. Their attention was focused on the threat, and so Elrond was the only one who noticed the hollow look in Thranduil’s eye; he would’ve accepted Mornince’s terms had he not still had half a kingdom to protect. But Thranduil, son of Oropher, would uphold his duty until the very end, even if it destroyed his soul.

Mirkwood warriors converged on Mornince. With a snarl, she swung her arms out, and every elf within ten feet were flung violently to the ground, including Glorfindel. Elrond gripped Thranduil’s arm and wrenched him back a step. Yet Mornince did not advance on them, nor did she attempt to flee. Rather, she spun on her heel and began running down the corridor. Despite being unarmed, Elrond and Thranduil bolted after her.

Guards leaped from platforms above and down the stairs, but Mornince intercepted the first, bending the elf’s wrist back until it cracked. He dropped his knife with a grunt, and Mornince snatched it up. She whirled, stabbing the next warrior to attack. Glancing back at the elves in pursuit, she shot a hand out, and Elrond felt an invisible force slam into his chest. He went sprawling to the ground in a heap next to Thranduil.

A figure vaulted over him, blond hair whipping like sails as Glorfindel swung his sword at the sorceress. Mornince barely brought her stolen knife up to block, and the clang of steel rang out. Glorfindel bore down on Mornince relentlessly, driving her back step by step. She was quick and managed to avoid his blows, until at last he scored a mark across her stomach.

Mornince staggered back in shock and rage. Her eyes sparked, and she spat a word Elrond did not understand, but he felt its evilness wobble the air. Black smoke spewed from Mornince’s fingertips to assault Glorfindel. The elf lord tried to wield his sword against it, but the mist-like entity merely dissipated around the blade while seeming to solidify into talons the next instant. Glorfindel grunted as they raked across his arms and chest.

Elrond frantically looked around for a weapon to use against such a creature, and spotted a small pool of water beneath one of the bridges. While he did not wish to reveal Vilya to Mornince, he could not allow her dark magic to gravely injure his friend. The elvish words fell from his lips like a cascade, activating the ring’s power over the elements. A column of water coiled up from the pool, and Elrond tossed it indelicately at Glorfindel and the smoke creature. Some of it splattered the Ñoldo warrior in the face, but the mist was effectively doused. Elrond snapped his attention to Mornince, grimly finding her staring hungrily back at him.

“Father!” a voice broke through the brief lull in fighting. “You must come quickly!”

Elrond’s eyes widened as Elrohir came sprinting down the passage. Before he could shout a warning, Mornince had whirled around, knife still in hand. In Elrohir’s obvious panic—which set off distant warnings in the back of Elrond’s mind—he did not process that this female elf was a threat until it was too late.

Mornince ran at Elrohir, and he slowed in dismay as she lashed out to grab his arm, twisting him around against her chest and bringing the blade up to his neck.

“No!” Elrond had started forward, but stopped short when Elrohir gasped from Mornince pressing the knife harder against his pale skin.

She angled a curious look at her captive, then back at Elrond. “Well, it seems I now have the sons of both elf lords in my grasp.”

Elrohir sputtered in surprise, alarmed eyes finding Elrond’s. Elrond silently pleaded with his son to stay quiet. Glorfindel had recovered, and now stood by Elrond’s side, sword raised but shaking slightly as his chest heaved. Thranduil was also on his feet again, as were the dozen or so Mirkwood warriors who’d caught up to them, weapons raised and trained on the elf-witch.

Mornince’s lips lifted in a manic grin. “Thranduil was willing to pass on the chance to help his son. What about you, Lord Elrond?”

Elrond clenched his fists, knowing what she was about to ask. But he could not hand over Vilya, for the destruction Mornince would wreak with it would poison the ring of power to as much detriment as Sauron could with the One Ring.

“I know what you carry,” she continued.

Elrohir shot his father a terrified, desperate look…but it wasn’t for himself. He had guessed what this strange elf wanted, and knew Elrond could not give it. Yet there was another layer of panic in that gaze, and Elrohir kept fidgeting as though to look over his shoulder, despite the knife poised precariously at his throat. Elrond suddenly felt cold.

Thranduil had a hand up to stay his archers, his flinty expression waiting for Elrond. All he had to do was give the word, and Thranduil would order his warriors to fire. But elven reflexes worked both ways, and Mornince could easily slit Elrohir’s throat before she was slain. Yet they could not continue this stand-off indefinitely, especially with the sense of foreboding now creeping down Elrond’s spine. _Elladan…_

Mornince rotated the blade and nicked Elrohir’s neck, drawing forth a thin line of blood. The young elf gritted his teeth against making any sound, but it did not stop the burn inside Elrond’s chest as he watched helplessly.

Mornince licked her lips, eyes glittering between Elrond’s face and the hand that bore the sapphire ring. With Vilya, she could complete her destruction of the Woodland Realm. “Make your choice.”

* * *

 

Gandalf held on for dear life as the sled jounced over uneven ground and careened through the air at neck-breaking speed. He was grateful for the swiftness of Rhosgobel rabbits, he truly was…as long as they didn’t accidentally crash along the way. Norman the fox was a tight, terrified ball of fluff in the crook of Gandalf’s arm, while Radagast whooped from the driving bow, egging the hares onward. The forest whipped by in blurs of browns and greens, like a warped vortex twisting around them.

Finally the rabbits leaped through a gap in the trees and scrabbled to put on the brakes before they reached the bridge to the palace gates. The sled skidded sideways, jolting to an abrupt halt at the edge of the gorge. When Gandalf’s head managed to stop spinning, he looked up and noticed the doors to the mountain hanging wide open, but there was no sign of any guards responding to the commotion outside.

He scrambled off the sleigh, depositing the fox in the cargo bed, and gripped his staff tightly as he sprinted across the bridge.

“Stay put, Norman!” Radagast called, and hurried after him.

Gandalf vaguely heard the fox barking something furiously, perhaps a protest, but he paid it no mind. The wizards burst into the palace, and Gandalf whipped his head around. Where was everyone? He could practically taste the acrid stench of black magic on the air, and his heart skipped for fear. Whirling, he sprinted toward the healing ward.

Halfway there, he finally spotted a gathering of elves centered around something, weapons drawn. When Gandalf drew closer and spotted Elrohir being held at knifepoint by a female elf, he did not hesitate to thrust his staff toward Mornince with a shout. Light pulsed from the crystal in the crown with the force of a nova, filling the cavern with whiteness and blinding everyone. Gandalf surged forward before the light had fully dissipated, though when it did, he spotted Elrohir on the ground, having wrenched away from Mornince who still had both arms up to shield her eyes.

Perhaps she heard Gandalf’s stern footsteps, for she jerked back and spat a curse that sent a wave of powerful magic back at the Grey Wizard. He tried to block, but the impact still cracked the air like thunder, and he flipped backwards, knocking the wind from his lungs when he landed. The concussive force swept out to flatten every elf in the vicinity as well. Grunting, Gandalf pushed himself onto his elbow and reached for his staff, which had fallen beside him.

A soft shoe kicked it away, and then stepped on his chest to shove him back down. “I see I underestimated you, Mithrandir,” Mornince sneered. Her dark eyes crackled with gathering power as she extended her palms toward him.

Gandalf lifted his head, and his beard twitched with a smug smirk. “Not me.”

Mornince frowned, and as Gandalf flicked a look behind her, she turned, only to be stopped by the end of Radagast’s staff. The Brown Wizard shot her a glare of righteous indignation before jabbing her sharply in the abdomen and uttering a spell. Gandalf snatched up his staff and thrust the end toward her back. The aligned wizard’s rods sparked with a magnetic explosion, and Mornince let out a raging scream. Lightning forked through her body and out her mouth, and when it winked out, she crumpled to the ground. Vacant eyes stared into a starless heaven, tendrils of smoke curling up from her body.

“Hmph,” Radagast huffed. Then he turned and offered Gandalf a hand up. “Sorry, Gandalf, I might have overdone my part in that.”

“No, no, not at all,” he replied. “You did well, Radagast.”

The Brown Wizard turned in a slow circle. “Where is the human whelp that was helping her?” he asked, tone promising violent vengeance to the man.

Gandalf swept his gaze over the elves as they began pushing themselves off the ground, casting bewildered looks at the wizards and the defeated elf-witch. Elrond hurried to crouch down next to Elrohir. Hm, there was no sign of Cain.

“Gandalf,” Glorfindel exclaimed. “We feared you and Radagast had perished.”

He harrumphed. “Not that easily.” Gandalf arched a brow at the elf-lord’s disheveled and slightly bloody appearance, then at Elrohir, who seemed mostly unharmed. They’d arrived not a moment too soon.

“Father!” Elrohir shouted earnestly, gripping Elrond’s arms. “What I came to tell you—Elladan and Legolas are struggling to breathe. I think they’re fading!”

Elrond visibly paled, and then he and Thranduil were bolting for the healing ward. Gandalf hurried after them. _Perhaps a moment sooner would have been better_.

When Gandalf entered the infirmary, his pulse spiked at the sight of the still, pale forms who looked far more ashen since last he’d seen them. Elrond checked Elladan first, then Legolas, mouth pinching in obvious distress as he could not work on both at the same time.

Thranduil went to Legolas, reaching out a tentative hand. Then he lifted his gaze to take in the elves still lying comatose in the other beds and on the floor in the corners. “The spell did not break with her death,” he said dispiritedly. “She has still won.”

Gandalf pulled his shoulders back. “She has not. I know how we may still overcome this.”

Elrond’s expression sharpened. “How?”

Gandalf pushed forward between the beds, placing a hand first on Legolas’s brow, then Elladan’s, questing with his senses now that he understood the nature of their condition. “They must be together.”

“Together?” Elrohir repeatedly dumbly.

“The elf-witch behind the spell said she’d trapped them in a dreamscape,” Glorfindel said, sending a questioning look toward the wizards.

“Yes,” Gandalf confirmed. “Elrond, I need you to set aside your concern for Elladan and help us here. It is the only way to save them both.”

A muscle in the elf-lord’s jaw ticked, but he tore his gaze away from his fading son and squared his shoulders. “What must we do?”

“I know the spell Mornince cast,” Gandalf replied. “Radagast and I can create a breach into the dream world she created, and we’ll need you to use Vilya to channel strength through to Legolas and those with him. He is the key to breaking the curse completely.”

“Then she was telling the truth about a gatekeeper?” Thranduil asked.

Gandalf arched a brow, somewhat surprised she would have told them that, but perhaps she had been taunting the Elvenking. “Aye. Radagast and I will be able to manipulate the construct slightly, enough to help Legolas find the door.” He nodded to the Brown Wizard, who took up position on the other side of Legolas’s bed.

“Can you send someone through the breach you’ll create?”

Gandalf snapped a startled look at Thranduil. The Elvenking’s jaw was set with staunch determination as he stared back at the wizard.

“Thranduil,” Elrond interjected. “That is too dangerous. If you were to be trapped too…”

“Or I can open the gate just as Legolas can, because we are of the same blood.” He flashed Gandalf a dark glare. “Well? Can you?”

The Grey Wizard frowned thoughtfully. He had not considered it before, but from what he knew of the curse, Thranduil could very well serve as the key as well. It was risky, but given Legolas’s rapidly weakening condition…

“Yes,” he replied.

Glorfindel stepped forward. “I will go with you.”

Thranduil started shaking his head. “You are injured.”

“Not severely, and I am well acquainted with spirit travel,” the Ñoldo warrior protested. “There are aspects that will be disorienting for anyone who’s not experienced it before.”

“Hm, he makes a valid point,” Radagast put in.

“I will go too!” Elrohir exclaimed.

“No,” Elrond snapped, but then put a gentle hand on his son’s shoulder. “I need you here. Your bond with Elladan will lend him strength, and I cannot sustain both him and Legolas for long.” Elrond furrowed his brow, eyes flicking to the cut on Elrohir’s neck. “Can you do that?”

Elrohir lifted his chin and stubbornly nodded. “Yes.”

“Well then let’s begin!” Gandalf groused. “We are running out of time.” He gestured impatiently for Thranduil and Glorfindel to take a seat in the chairs by the bed. “Each of you take Legolas’s hand,” he instructed. “Elrond, Elrohir, stand here.”

The wizards extended their arms over the prince. Elrond placed the hand that wore Vilya over Legolas’s brow, his other on Thranduil’s shoulder, while Elrohir rested his palms on Legolas’s chest and Glorfindel’s arm.

“May the Grace of the Valar protect you,” Gandalf mumbled before nodding to Radagast, and the two closed their eyes to begin their chant. The veil into the sorceress’s dreamscape appeared in Gandalf’s mind, along with the pulsing auras of him and Radagast as they built up power. The golden hues of the waiting elves lingered in the background. Taking a deep breath, Gandalf wove his and Radagast’s magic with the spirits of Thranduil and Glorfindel, and then punched through the veil with them.


	13. Lock and Key

Thranduil felt as though he’d been swept up in a hurricane, buffeted by violent gales on all sides until suddenly it stopped, and he found himself blinking up at a canopy of wispy gray trees. For a long moment, he couldn’t move, as though he was not connected to his body. Except…hadn’t he badgered Mithrandir into separating his _fëa_ from his physical shell? What had given him _that_ preposterous idea?

“My lord, Thranduil,” a voice penetrated the haze of his mind, and he turned his head to find Glorfindel kneeling next to him. The elf warrior seemed larger somehow, a soft aura outlining his form in an ethereal silhouette. Any signs of the wounds he bore before were now gone.

“I know it feels strange, but you must collect yourself and get up.”

A hand slipped under his back, pushing Thranduil into a sitting position. His head swam, and he squinted against the rush. “That was a rough transition,” he grunted.

“We did not exactly go about it the normal way,” Glorfindel replied, and stood up. He closed his eyes, and the glow about him seemed to increase, gathering in intensity in his hands. Thranduil’s breath caught as the golden light billowed up to coalesce into two gleaming swords. Glorfindel opened his eyes and handed one to Thranduil when the Elvenking got to his feet.

“From the Istari,” the elf-lord said.

Thranduil gazed in wonder at the sword, the blade appearing to be made of some midnight-blue alloy, the hilt pure silver.

“Legolas must be nearby,” Glorfindel continued. “Gandalf says you should be able to sense him.”

Thranduil arched a brow. “You are communicating with Mithrandir?” He looked around, but did not see the Grey Wizard, nor hear any voices in his head.

Glorfindel nodded, shrewd eyes evaluating the strange, decaying forest. “As I said, I am a little more versed in the ways of spirit travel than most of the Eldar.”

So it seemed. He had never known the Glorfindel of legend who slew a balrog, for Thranduil had been born later in the First Age. But looking at the Ñoldo warrior before him now, he could see the greatness of one who had lived during the Elder Days, sailed from Valinor to Middle-earth where he perished in battle, and after an age in the Halls of Waiting, came back to Middle-earth once more. And Thranduil was suddenly grateful to have such an elf by his side.

“We must hurry.” Glorfindel’s urgency snapped Thranduil out of his awe.

He wanted to ask how he was supposed to find Legolas in this place, but at the mere thought of his son, Thranduil felt a ping inside his chest, tugging him in a specific direction. “This way.”

Together they strode under the waxen trees until they came to a copse mantled in heavy webs. Thranduil stiffened, recalling what Mornince had said about the horrors she’d populated this realm with, and he quickly scanned the tree tops for Giant Spiders. He heard Glorfindel suck in a sharp breath, and whipped his gaze lower to where a group of giant bats—not spiders—appeared to be feasting on cocooned catches. And in that moment, Thranduil knew beyond a shadow of doubt where Legolas was.

Without a sound, he raised his sword and charged, a silent, deadly agent of retribution. The first bat fell, its skull cloven in two as it drank; Thranduil was careful not to strike the body of whoever was trapped against the trunk of the tree. As the creature hit the ground, the others began screeching and took to the air. Thranduil spotted Elladan partially exposed from one of the cocoons.

The bats flapped up into the forest canopy before diving back down. Glorfindel leaped forward and slashed his blade across one’s chest. Black ichor misted the air, and the Ñoldo warrior spun around to cut down the next assailant.

Thranduil ducked under an attack, pressing forward toward the one bat that remained flightless, seated atop a wrap of webbing nestled on the ground instead of a tree. The Elvenking could not say what drove him, save some profound instinct. What a terrible visage he must have been to make a creature born of nightmares cower and shriek in terror. The bat flapped furiously, though its obviously broken wing flailed uselessly at its side. With one sweep of his sword, the creature’s head detached from its body and bounced across the ground.

Sounds of fighting cut off abruptly as Glorfindel finished off the last beast, and Thranduil dropped to the ground next to the sticky net, heart pounding as he deftly slashed it to pieces. The gossamer strands fell away, revealing a pale face framed in dirty blond hair.

“Legolas!” Thranduil gripped his son’s shoulders and shook him, though Legolas did not stir. There were two puncture marks in his neck sluggishly leaking blood. “Valar, no.”

Glorfindel appeared at his side and placed one hand on Legolas’s head. A brief moment later, a blue aura shimmered from his palm to swim down and encase Legolas’s chest.

“Elrond has him now,” Glorfindel said, and immediately jumped up again to go cut Elladan down.

Thranduil could only watch as the incorporeal essence of the Ñoldo healer cradled his son’s _fëa_ , imbuing life into him again. The ugly fang marks gradually faded in color before the torn skin began to mend. Out of the corner of his eye, Thranduil registered Glorfindel lowering Elladan to the ground and holding a golden diffused palm over the Peredhil’s unconscious face. And he realized there were still more cocoons in the copse.

Glancing at Legolas again, Thranduil forced himself away to go free the other elves. Yet the first cocoon he came to was empty, which seemed strange since the bats had been feeding on all of them only moments before. He hurried to the next and sliced it apart with his sword. A dark-haired she-elf fell limply into his arms, neck also a mess of shredded skin from multiple bite marks. Thranduil carried her over to Glorfindel before returning to the last cocoon, but it turned out to be empty as well.

Thranduil scanned the webbing draped throughout the trees; there were no more wraps that he could see, nor sleeping bats. He hastened back to Legolas, who appeared to finally be stirring.

“ _Ion_ _nîn?_ ” he called to his son, laying a hand on the side of Legolas’s face.

A small moan rumbled in the prince’s throat, and Thranduil held his breath as Legolas pried his eyes open, tired blue orbs gazing blearily at him. “Father?” he rasped.

“Yes. I’m here, my son.”

Legolas squeezed his eyes shut. “No, not you too.”

Thranduil frowned before understanding dawned. “I am not here by some witch’s curse. The one who did this is dead and her evil can no longer spread. With Mithrandir’s help, I came to get you and the others out of here.” His heart broke as Legolas opened his eyes again, tears of pain, grief, despair, and dashed hope barely held at bay. Thranduil gently brushed his finger across the one track that escaped down his son’s cheek. “Hold on, _ion_. This nightmare will soon be over.”

“Legolas?” a weak voice whispered.

Thranduil looked up to see Elladan conscious, though barely. Glorfindel had moved to the female warrior—Anaire, Thranduil now recognized—and was channeling Elrond’s sapphire healing energy into her limp body.

“Elladan?” Legolas responded, craning his head.

The Peredhil rolled half onto his stomach and crawled forward on his elbows, just enough to reach out for Legolas. At his son’s struggle, Thranduil cut the rest of the webbing away from his limbs, and Legolas reached back to clasp his friend’s hand.

“You’re alive,” Legolas breathed.

“I told you…not getting rid of me…that easily.” Elladan gave a wan smile, which Legolas returned.

Thranduil’s gaze roved over the rest of his son, and he caught sight of more wounds on Legolas’s hip. They appeared older, three-quarters healed, and the Elvenking was suddenly and horrifically reminded of when Legolas had nearly faded.

He clenched his jaw. “Glorfindel, I should like Gandalf to direct me to this ‘gatekeeper’ now.” The sooner he battled whatever monster Mornince had prepared for him, the sooner he could get his son home.

Legolas furrowed his brow and lifted his head to take in the elf-lord sitting with Anaire. “What gatekeeper? And where are Calatar and Nólaquen?”

Thranduil frowned. “There were two others with you? We did not find…” He flicked his gaze to the two empty cocoons. What could those mean? He was under the impression that none could wake until he defeated the gatekeeper… _Oh_. With a heavy heart, Thranduil looked back to his son’s grief-stricken face.

“I’m sorry, Legolas,” Elladan said softly.

He shook his head. “Such needless death.”

Thranduil squeezed his shoulder. There were no words that could ease the pain of losing friends or elves under one’s command. Though, Legolas had grown accustomed to dealing with it before, so why did this time seem to weigh heavier on him?

Glorfindel moved to stand over them, now that Anaire was also conscious and leaning against a tree. “Gandalf and Radagast can summon the gatekeeper at any time. Are you sure you’re ready?”

“I do not wish to delay bringing my people safely home,” Thranduil replied, getting to his feet. “But are you saying they will bring the door directly to us?”

Glorfindel nodded. “This is a spirit realm, and while it has concrete boundaries, it can be…fluid, when manipulated by strong minds or magic.”

“I knew it,” Elladan muttered.

“I must fight whatever it is on my own,” Thranduil told the elf-lord. “I do not know what will happen should someone else slay it, but knowing Mornince’s taste for cruelty, I do not wish to find out.”

Glorfindel inclined his head in understanding.

Legolas pushed himself up onto his elbows. “Why alone? Father, these creatures are unlike anything ever seen in Middle-earth.”

Thranduil gazed down at him, eyes drifting slightly to the side where he’d set his sword. He knelt to pick it up.

“Where did you get that?” Elladan breathed in awe.

“From a rather obnoxious wizard,” he replied, though without any heat. He stepped forward then and clasped Glorfindel’s shoulder. “Protect them.”

Glorfindel returned the elvish embrace and nodded firmly. Thranduil cast one last look at Legolas, who was now propped up by Elladan and gazing back at him with a pleading expression. _Be careful_.

Giving his son a resolute nod, Thranduil turned to stride out from the sheltered copse. It would have been nice to have some warning on what the wizards needed to do in order to summon this gatekeeper, or how quickly it might appear. But he had no such mental connection with them as Glorfindel did—though, he wasn’t sure he wanted Mithrandir in his head anyway.

He had only walked a short distance from the others when the trees ahead began to shake and thrash…as though something large was barreling through them. Straight toward Thranduil. Gripping the sword with both hands, the Elvenking stood his ground and braced for what horrifying apparition would reveal itself. All he could see through the tightly woven forest was a huge black mass, swelling ever larger as it drew closer.

And then a few seconds later, a dragon like one of the great Worms, crashed into the open, splintering trees under its massive bulk. Obsidian scales gleamed like oil down its wingless form, and its talons alone were half the length of Thranduil’s sword. Its saurian head snapped to the side, nostrils flaring as it narrowed a red, slitted eye on him.

Thranduil gritted his teeth. Of course Mornince would mock him with _this_ as the demon he must defeat. But if she had thought taunting memories would cow him, she was sorely mistaken. He had faced the serpents of the North, and his scars would not serve as a debilitating weakness, but proof of his might and prowess.

The dragon opened its mouth and spewed forth a cloud of cloying black smoke. Thranduil took grim reassurance that it did not breathe fire before raising his sword and attacking. With a roar, the beast reared up and lashed its head out. Thranduil swung his blade at the throat, but it wrenched away at the last second. The Elvenking spun, his sword an extension of his arm as he pivoted and slashed in a ceaseless, breathless dance.

So intent he was on avoiding the claws and fangs that the tail whipping around caught him by surprise, knocking his legs out from under him. The impact with the ground jarred his body, but he rolled with the momentum into a crouch, and thrust the sword at the dragon’s flank. Normally, a mere blade would not pierce such a thick hide, but this was not a regular dragon—nor a mortal sword.

The celestial alloy plunged through flesh and muscle, and the beast screeched in pain. As it jerked away and Thranduil yanked the blade out, a fork of lightning shot from the tip directly into the creature’s wound, amplifying its agony. Thranduil darted away from the thrashing, arching a brow at the unexpected result and wondering if Gandalf was watching more closely than he’d thought.

He darted in to strike again, but the dragon was faster—it snapped its tail at him, which he saw coming this time. Yet as he ducked to avoid it, he found himself directly in the path of a massive clawed foot, which slammed into his chest and propelled him through the air. Thranduil hit the ground hard enough to send stars bursting across his vision. Shock made his limbs numb, and he couldn’t seem to move, even as impact vibrations trembled through the earth beneath him from the dragon stalking closer.

He heard someone shout, and a golden haze leaped past him, swinging another blazing sword at the dragon. Thranduil gasped in an effort to get up. _No!_ Glorfindel couldn’t be the one to kill the beast. But the  Ñoldo warrior appeared to only be distracting the dragon, scoring shallow cuts across its face and flank, drawing it away from Thranduil to buy the king time to regroup.

Thranduil pushed himself upright, grimacing as pain radiated down his spine. He had to get up; he could not fail! His fingers cramped around the hilt of his sword, and he used it to brace himself as he got to his knees. A sharp cry tore from Glorfindel, and Thranduil looked up in time to see the elf-lord get thrown into a tree. The dragon whirled back to Thranduil.

He staggered to his feet and lifted his sword, but the beast lashed out and clamped its jaws around the Elvenking’s arm. He could not help the scream that escaped his throat, and his useless fingers dropped the sword to clatter on the ground. Jerking him to the side, the dragon flung him down. This time his vision whited out completely.

Before he could get up again, a heavy foot smashed down on his chest, claws curling over his shoulders. Thranduil gasped, struggling to get free. The air whooshed out of him, and hot, putrid breath billowed in his face so that he could not replenish his lungs. A glittering red eye appeared above his face, flaring with triumph. The head pulled back, jaws opening wide in preparation to devour.

Thranduil desperately pushed against the unyielding foot pinning him down. _Gandalf! Elrond!_

The fangs never sank into his flesh, for the dragon reared up onto its back legs with a horrendous, ear-splitting screech. Thranduil blinked, confused as to the blond-haired figure he suddenly saw standing beneath the dragon with Thranduil’s sword plunged into its belly. Glorfindel wouldn’t…

No, not Glorfindel. _Legolas_. Thranduil sucked in a breath, even as Legolas pushed the blade deeper, and a great crack of bright light sundered the dragon’s stomach. It threw its head back with another roar, body jerking violently. As it twisted around, a foreleg swung out and connected with Legolas, throwing him several feet away. Thranduil’s heart stuttered as he watched his son hit the ground and not move.

The dragon started to bubble and boil. Black goop burst from pustules along its scales, splattering the ground, and as the creature began to melt, so too did the trees. Like gray candlesticks, wax dribbled down the trunks and the leaves warped into heavy globs that plopped on the ground. Even the sky seemed to liquefy into raindrops of sludge falling away.

Thranduil tried to crawl to Legolas, heart thundering in his chest. Where was the doorway? Had it been a trick and killing the dragon would not set them free? As earth and sky bled into each other, the only thing Thranduil could think of was getting to his son. His sleeves were soaked in mud that inhibited his movements, but he fought all that much harder. Just as he reached a hand out to grasp Legolas’s fingers, the world was plunged into darkness.

* * *

 

Elrohir snapped out of the meditative trance as he felt the three wandering _fëar_ slam back into their bodies. He swayed, catching himself on the bed’s headboard. What was _that_? He lifted his brows questioningly at his father, and then at Gandalf. Yet before anyone could speak, a sharp inhalation from the bed had everyone’s gazes whipping downward.

“Legolas!” Elrohir bent down to cup his friend’s face, elated at the sight of those blue eyes, however tired and dazed they appeared.

Legolas blinked at him, mouth parting as though to speak, but then his head lolled to the side and his eyelids slid closed again. Elrohir shot his father a panicked look. Elrond placed his hands over Legolas’s forehead and chest, his own brow furrowing with concentration. Elrohir sensed the healing energy flowing between them, and in the next instant he was leaping to his feet and dashing around to the other bed. His heart soared when he was greeted by open, dark eyes.

Elladan squinted at him and smiled. “‘Ro,” he rasped, flailing a weak hand outward. Elrohir caught the lax fingers between his own. “I felt you there,” Elladan breathed. “Pulled…me back.”

Elrohir’s eyes prickled with moisture. “I’ve missed you, _muindor_.” _We aren’t ever supposed to be separated like that_.

“Not half as much as I missed you.”

Elrohir snorted, and hauled his brother up into a crushing embrace. “We will have to agree to disagree on that one.” He felt Elladan’s arms come around to return the hug, though his grip was far from strong. And then Elladan stiffened. Elrohir drew back worriedly, only to find his twin staring over his shoulder.

“Legolas,” Elladan whispered.

Elrohir craned around just as their father withdrew his hands, disconnecting the healing transfer. “ _Ada?_ ”

Elrond turned to them, and his shoulders visibly sagged as his gaze fell on Elladan. “He’s alive and back with us.” Elrond cupped the back of Elladan’s head, pulling him to his chest. “And so are you, _ion_ _nîn_.”

Elrohir could see their father moving his other hand discreetly up and down Elladan’s back, that subtle blue glow searching for injury.

“Elrond,” Gandalf spoke up. “You are needed.”

Elrohir looked over, eyes widening as he saw Thranduil had yet to regain consciousness. Glorfindel stood next to him, one hand on the king’s shoulder.

“He was wounded by the gatekeeper,” he informed them.

Elrond tightened his hold on Elladan, reluctant to let go, even as the healer in him demanded he do just that.

“I am well enough, father,” Elladan assured him. “Go.”

Elrond clasped his shoulder before pulling away and moving to see to Thranduil.

Elrohir scooted closer to his brother. “What happened there, Elladan?”

A haunted look came over his twin, and Elladan reached out to grip Elrohir’s hand like a lifeline. Elrohir squeezed back in understanding. They would speak of it, when the memory was not so fresh and painful. For now, though, Elrohir had his brother back.

All around them, elves in the other beds began to sit up and blink at their surroundings in confusion and relief. The nightmare was over.


	14. When the Dawn Breaks

Only a rare few times in all his years had Thranduil experienced the terrifying sensation of nothingness, where one was too severely injured to find refuge in the paths of elven dreams. And so coming out of such numbing darkness was quite a jolt, despite the fact his first awareness was of a soft mattress and pillow beneath him.

Thranduil pried his eyelids open, taking a moment to stare at the smooth curvature of ceiling and lancing rays of golden sunlight streaming through the high, vertical window. He was in his own bedchamber, though he did not remember coming here. Immediately Thranduil became aware of a presence at his side, and when he turned his head, the Elvenking found the last person he expected—or wanted—sitting in a chair by his bed.

Gandalf’s beard twitched with a hidden smile. “Welcome back.”

Thranduil pushed himself upright, frowning at the dull ache in his head. “What happened?”

“You defeated the gatekeeper and broke Mornince’s curse.”

Thranduil’s blood chilled as he remembered the great serpent and the world seeming to melt all around him. He’d thought he failed, but it had worked… “Not me,” he breathed in realization. “Legolas.” His heart lurched then. “Is he…?”

“Alive,” Gandalf assured. “He was moved to his own chambers once Elrond was confident his _fëa_ was no longer in danger of fading.”

“Then he still sleeps?” Thranduil exclaimed in alarm. He swung off the bed, only to regret it when the room spun. A hand gripped his elbow and held him steady, much to his chagrin.

“He woke briefly when the spell was broken, but he was very weak from the ordeal, as were many who had been trapped. Elrond has had a strenuous time mending all the wounded _fëar_ , and is now resting himself under Glorfindel’s care.”

Thranduil reached up to brace his throbbing temple. “Then Glorfindel made it as well?”

“Yes.” Gandalf waited patiently for Thranduil to collect himself. “You have been asleep for a day, but in that time, most of your people have recovered, and the healing ward is no longer overflowing with those who still need rest.”

Thranduil nodded in acknowledgement. He almost could not believe they had succeeded. When he’d demanded to go into the dreamscape after Legolas, he felt as though he was following in his father’s footsteps—an ill-fated charge that was brave, but perhaps foolish, and would leave his people’s numbers sorely reduced and shaken. _But he had not failed_. Yes, there were casualties, but Mirkwood _would_ recover, as it always did.

“I want to see my son now.” Thranduil fixed the wizard with an iron glare before Gandalf could attempt to talk him out of it. Yet the Istar did not argue, and released Thranduil’s arm to let him pass. If the wizard trailed a little closely behind the Elvenking in readiness to lend a hand again, neither commented on it.

They came to Legolas’s bedchamber, and Thranduil took a deep breath before entering, afraid he would find Legolas the same as before. As he strode inside, he noted Elladan sitting in a large, plush chair next to the bed, a blanket tucked around his waist. He looked pale as he had in the dreamscape, yet when he lifted his head at the visitors, his eyes were alight with vibrancy.

“Good morning, my lord.” There was something more to the Peredhil’s tone beyond formality and etiquette, as though he truly was inspired by the dawn. As the Elvenking recalled the dreary forest devoid of sun, he supposed that was how Elladan felt.

Thranduil inclined his head, and then approached the bed. As he had feared, Legolas was still, and just as thin and wan. Thranduil’s chest constricted, once again the fear of failure tightening around his heart like a vice.

“I know it doesn’t seem like it, but he is getting stronger,” Elladan said. “He wakes for brief moments, long enough to ply some broth into him.” Elladan paused. “He’s asked for you, but hasn’t remained conscious long enough to hear your condition. I’m glad we can tell him you’re well now.”

With a twinge in his heart, Thranduil hesitantly reached out to brush lank strands of hair from Legolas’s brow, and was surprised to find he was no longer cold. His eyes may have been closed, his body frail after nearly two weeks in a coma, but there were subtle differences now, and Thranduil began to believe that Legolas would recover as Gandalf had promised.

“Good morning, Elrohir,” the wizard said, and Thranduil looked up to see the younger Peredhil entering with a tray of food.

“Gandalf,” Elrohir greeted as he set the tray on Legolas’s writing desk. There was a slight weariness to his shoulders, though not as pronounced as his twin. He glanced at Thranduil and smiled in relief. “It’s good to see you awake again, my lord. You and Legolas gave me and my father quite a scare.”

Thranduil frowned. Of course, Elrohir had been lending his healing energy when Thranduil and Glorfindel had gone into the dreamscape. But had it really been that close? The Elvenking almost sighed as he realized Elrond must have expended a great deal of effort mending Thranduil’s _fëa_ as well as everyone else’s. Now he owed the Ñoldo even more.

Elrohir brought over a plate of bread and fruit to Elladan, who laid it on his lap.

Thranduil angled a scrutinizing look at the older Peredhil, more slumped in the chair than reclining. “Surely we have enough beds in the guest chambers for you to attain proper rest.”

Elrohir made a small noise of disgruntled agreement in the back of his throat.

“I am merely making things easier on you, _muindor_ ,” Elladan replied, directing his answer to his brother. “This way you do not have to go back and forth between me and Legolas.”

Thranduil was not fooled, nor did he miss how Elladan kept shooting Legolas glances, as though to assure himself the prince was still there. It was a habit Thranduil had become all too familiar with recently, and he recalled how desperately his son and the Ñoldo had clung to each other in that nightmare realm. They had been through much together, but Thranduil would not ask the Peredhil to tell him all that transpired. If Legolas wished to speak of it when he woke, Thranduil would listen then.

Elrohir picked up the chair from the writing desk and carried it over to the other side of the bed across from Elladan. “Here, my lord, you should sit. You probably haven’t been up long.”

Thranduil held back a sigh; he wanted to sit with his son, wanted to be there when Legolas woke properly and assure him everything was all right, but now that this crisis had been averted, there was much to do.

“Thank you, Elrohir, but I’m afraid there are some things I must see to first. If I could ask you to watch over Legolas a little longer, I will come relieve you in a bit.”

The young Peredhil shook his head fervently. “Wild horses could not tear me from Legolas’s side. My lord,” he added with hasty reverence.

Once again, Thranduil was touched by the devotion Elrond’s sons held toward Legolas.

“Nor me,” Elladan said.

Elrohir crossed his arms and canted his head. “A butterfly’s wings could blow you out of the room at the moment.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Elladan scowled.

Gandalf rolled his eyes to the ceiling, which for some reason brought Thranduil a flicker of amusement. He reluctantly stepped away from his son’s bed to approach the wizard, leaving the twins to bicker quietly. Thranduil got the feeling they did that often, and though he could foresee it becoming tiresome, at the moment he was heartened by the apparent normalcy of it all.

“I owe you a great deal of gratitude, Mithrandir.”

Gandalf smiled. “Had Mirkwood fallen, all of Middle-earth would have felt the blow.” His grey eyes shadowed slightly. “I daresay it would have crippled our ability to stand against the Dark Lord when he rises again.”

Thranduil clenched his jaw and looked away. He knew the time of the Watchful Peace was only a reprieve, a false sense of security before war began again. That did not make hearing from one of the Istari that Sauron would return in full any easier to bear, especially so soon after they had all come close to perishing. But Thranduil shoved the wizard’s dire predictions down where he need not dwell on them.

“I wish to thank Radagast as well. Where is he?”

Gandalf rolled his shoulder awkwardly. “Ah, he’s left already. Said something about taking care of a vermin problem.”

“You mean the _fox_ told him something, and he ran off after it,” Elrohir interjected with a snicker.

Thranduil arched a brow. The Brown Wizard went chasing after…foxes? Well, the Elvenking probably shouldn’t have been surprised; Radagast was as flighty as his sparrow companions.

“He probably went after the last poacher,” Elladan said.

Elrohir’s earlier amusement shifted into disgust. “I would like nothing better than for Radagast to bring that despicable piece of human excrement back here, but the truth is the _adan_ is likely long gone.”

Thranduil gritted his teeth. He, too, would like to see the human that had kidnapped his son suffer for those crimes. But he would not send a patrol after the man, for there was too much healing that needed to be done here.

Getting back to the matter at hand… “Pass on my gratitude to Radagast then, will you, Gandalf? He had no small role in obtaining our victory here.”

Gandalf’s beard twitched with pride. “That he did, though if you were to tell him so, he would deny it.”

Thranduil let out a soft snort. That was true. Out of all the wizards, Radagast was a gentle, humble soul…one the Elvenking did not mind having nearby to help look after Mirkwood. Despite his apparent penchant for talking to animals.

Gandalf’s expression softened. “Thranduil, why don’t you stay with Legolas for a little? I believe he’s due to wake soon, and it would do you both good to see each other. I will gather your counselors and captains and make sure their reports are ready for you before you need receive them.”

Thranduil hesitated. His heart yearned to do just that, though the king in him instantly bristled against any assistance for what he was capable of doing himself. Yet…the wizard’s offer was not born of haughtiness. Everyone who had come to Mirkwood’s aid—wizards, Ñoldor—were not crutches to Thranduil’s rule, but pillars of strength.

He inclined his head, the words coming out slowly. “Thank you, Mithrandir. I…accept.” But curse the Istari if he didn’t look a little bit _too_ pleased by the acquiescence.

Gandalf excused himself, and Thranduil went to take the chair opposite Elladan. With a faint grin, he noticed the Peredhil had fallen asleep. Unlike before, there was a sense of tranquility on the young elf’s face that put Thranduil’s mind at ease. Elrohir gazed fondly at his brother for a moment before taking the plate of food from his lap and carrying it back to the tray.

“It seems this dawn brings many good tidings,” a voice spoke from the door.

Thranduil glanced up as Elrond entered. The Ñoldo indeed looked weary, his movements more guarded than graceful, and there were creases around his eyes. He had sacrificed much and nearly lost more in this war that never should have been his to begin with. Yet there was no trace of bitterness or resentment in Elrond’s expression as he walked over. Thranduil placed a finger to his lips and flicked his gaze meaningfully toward the two sleeping charges.

Elrond smiled at Elladan, and then turned to Legolas, settling a hand over the prince’s forehead. Elrohir fidgeted in the background.

“Do not look at me like that, _ion_ ,” Elrond chastised softly. “I am not overextending myself. I merely wish to see how he is doing.”

Elrohir huffed.

“And?” Thranduil could not help but ask.

Elrond smiled tiredly. “He is resting peacefully. You should ready some broth, Elrohir; I believe he will surface soon.”

Thranduil felt a little more tension loosen from his shoulders, only to be replaced with more as he considered his next words. He was not used to needing to express so much gratitude to so many in so short a time. _It is not weakness_ , he reminded himself.

“Thank you, Elrond,” he said, though his voice was so low that Elrohir probably did not hear it only six feet away. “For returning my son to me.”

Elrond canted his head sympathetically. “You did that, Thranduil. And by so doing, returned my son to me as well.”

The Elvenking shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Still, I know you must have…tended to me, afterward. In addition to all the other wounded elves. I can never repay you.”

If Thranduil expected Elrond to gloat or be smug, he was disappointed. Elrond crossed an arm over his chest and bowed. “There are no such debts between friends.”

Though he was briefly stunned, Thranduil nevertheless managed to return the gesture. But unlike in the past in his dealings with kingdoms of dwarves and men, this time was less formality, and more genuine respect. Perhaps, with the help of their sons, these two ancient elf-lords would cultivate stronger relations between Mirkwood and Imladris from now on.

Elrond’s gaze flicked down. “He’s coming around.”

Thranduil leaned forward in anticipation, a thrill racing through him as Legolas’s eyelids fluttered. He reached for his son’s hand and squeezed. “I’m here, _ion_ _nîn_.”

Blue eyes turned toward his voice, bright and clear, and Legolas smiled. “ _Ada_.”

* * *

 

The next two days were hazy for Legolas. He did not even remember half the times he woke from a deep, senseless slumber only to be force-fed cup after cup of broth. He wished Elrohir would give it a rest, for the effort exhausted him and he wanted to stay awake for at least a _few_ minutes, considering how long he’d slept already. But his mind and body were at odds with each other, and he had no control over slipping back into that dark oblivion. At least he did not dream.

Legolas felt himself waking once again, though he could not say what time or day it was. There was light suffusing through the window, so it was mid-afternoon. He turned his head, and was startled to find that one of the main fixtures that’d been there every other time he’d surfaced was gone. He felt a brief flash of panic start to rise within his chest.

“Elrohir took him for a walk in the garden,” a familiar, comforting voice wafted over him.

Legolas looked to his right and found his father exactly where he’d been for the past however many days, an open book lying in his lap.

“He needs to regain his strength, but they’ll be back,” Thranduil explained, deep understanding in his eyes.

Legolas let out a breath of relief. They were not in that dreamscape, and he had not woken alone because Elladan had been taken by giant bats. No, Elladan was on the mend, which Legolas was glad of, though he recognized he would soon be subjected to the same rehabilitative therapy. Legolas attempted to furl a fist, sighing at how weak it was. It would require many hours of training to restore his use of a bow. But it was a discipline he was familiar with, and could therefore accomplish.

He blinked to find his father gazing at him pensively.

“I have not spoken to Elladan of what happened in that dreamscape,” Thranduil began carefully. There was an open invitation in his tone, yet also the promise not to pry. “I can tell you two went through a great deal together.”

Legolas swallowed hard. “Time…seemed to pass differently there. I was alone for so long, and then Elladan was there…” His throat constricted. “He nearly died because of me. I’m sorry, father, for causing all this, for nearly destroying our home.”

Thranduil surged forward to clasp his arm fiercely, the book falling to the floor with a thud. “I will not have you blame yourself, Legolas.”

“I should not have let those men catch me off guard,” he protested. “I should have…” He faltered, unable to think of what he might have done differently. Gone for help as Lícumon had said? But then the men would have simply taken him, wasn’t that what they’d said? Could Legolas have fought harder? When they’d had him drugged or the giant man had been choking the breath from him? Should he have resisted until they killed him instead?

Thranduil remained quiet, letting Legolas deal with the torrent of thoughts and what-ifs until he’d exhausted all realistic alternatives—and found none. His father seemed to sense it as well, for he finally spoke again.

“It is no more your fault for being captured and abused than it is mine for letting Mornince go free the first time.”

Legolas frowned. So his father had known the sorceress?

Thranduil ran a weary hand down his face, a gesture Legolas rarely saw from his father, and one none outside private chambers had ever witnessed. “I will tell you all that transpired while you were trapped in that place, but for now I want you to hear me and believe that you fought valiantly to protect your people, Legolas. And in the end you did save them.”

Legolas turned his palm over to clasp his father’s hand. “We saved them,” he corrected.

Thranduil smiled, and then his face began to blur as Legolas felt the tug of sleep once more. He tried to resist, but his father’s gentle touch stroking his head only served to lull him further. Still, it was the longest conversation he’d had in days. It was progress.

*~*~*

Legolas sat perched on the highest platform balcony up in the peak of the underground palace. A week of rest and slow, healer-directed exercise had him out of bed, though he still tired easily. The climb up here had left him winded and shaky, and he was likely to receive several scoldings when he returned, but for now he simply wished to gaze at the stars through the oval opening in the mountain. He had missed their comforting presence dearly.

Lilting voices drifted up from far below where elves sung laments for those souls who had been lost. Between the requiems were also verses praising King Thranduil and Prince Legolas for their valor and sacrifice. Legolas did not care to be included, though he was pleased to hear Anaire’s name honored. He had told his father everything that happened in the dreamscape, and the Elvenking had intended to bestow commendation on the archer. Calatar’s and Nólaquen’s bravery were also mentioned in the dirges, along with their sacrifice.

The bereavement had become too much for Legolas to bear, which was why he had retreated to a place where the haunting music could soothe his spirit without the lyrics being clear enough to pierce his heart.

Shuffling on the stairs elicited a drawn out sigh; he was in for it now. Except it was not his father or the well-meaning but overbearing Peredhil twins that ascended to the balcony. Gandalf hobbled onto the platform, leaning heavily on his staff. He did not speak, but made his way over to sit across from Legolas, huffing from exertion.

Legolas canted a wry look at him. “You should not have climbed so high, Gandalf.”

The wizard harrumphed. “I think the same could be said for you.” But there was no real rebuke in his tone, nor a threat of removal. Though perhaps that was merely because Gandalf had to regain his breath first.

Legolas lolled his head back to gaze at the midnight-blue sky speckled with celestial diamonds, savoring the sight if he was to be dragged back to his chambers soon. Gandalf did not say anything more, however, and simply watched the stars with him in companionable silence.

Far away on the eastern horizon, the first glimmers of twilight heralded the arrival of dawn.


	15. Epilogue: Don't Mess with a Wizard

Cain tripped and tumbled into a brier bush. Thorns scored across his flesh and dug barbs into his clothes. Swatting at them furiously, he tried to crawl away, but the vines seemed to cling to him like leeches. He finally wrenched free and stumbled over to a pile of boulders to collapse against them. How could he have gotten so turned around? He’d been hunting and trapping in Mirkwood for _months_ , and he had an innate sense of direction. But it was as though the forest itself had conspired against his every turn. Which was ridiculous.

Cain thudded his head back against the rock wearily. Every venture since he’d allied himself with Mornince had gone horribly wrong. He was glad to be rid of the sorceress, and he hoped she’d met an unfavorable end back at the elves’ palace. Things certainly seemed to not be going her way, but Cain had taken the first opportunity he saw to bolt out of there and hadn’t looked back.

Except to shake the very annoying tiny fox that had chased him. The little wretch had nipped at his ankles for a good mile, and no amount of kicking had successfully struck the agile miniature demon. It’d finally gotten tired or run off, Cain didn’t care, and he was left alone. But then things started shifting—an exposed root would suddenly trip him when the path had been clear a moment before; rotted branches would inexplicably break off their boughs on top of his head. If he didn’t know better, Cain would think the trees had been _aiming_ at him.

He let out a long groan. He wanted nothing more than to get out of this loathsome forest.

A twig snapped, and Cain leaped to his feet, whipping out his hunting knife. He dearly hoped there wasn’t a Giant Spider out there. What he was about to realize, however, was it was something much worse.

One of the wizards stepped out from behind an oak. He leaned on his walking stick, bits of sprigs sticking out from his brown beard, looking for all the world like a harmless old man. For a long moment, they simply stared at each other. Cain was trying to determine if he stood a chance against the elderly wizard. He was loony, after all, and despite his threats earlier, it was the grey cloaked one who seemed more dangerous.

Cain relaxed a fraction, his usual cocky manner giving lift to his shoulders. “Well, I’m sure Mornince was livid that you escaped her trap. Nothing personal, by the way. Like I said, she would’ve killed me if I didn’t help her.”

“She’s dead now.”

Cain’s brows shot up. “Oh, that’s good news. For everyone.”

“Hm.”

Cain shifted his weight. “I seem to be a bit…lost. If you could direct me east, I will leave these woods as quickly as possible and never return. You have my word.”

The wizard’s eyes flashed darkly in the gloom of the forest. “Your word as a poacher, kidnapper, or conspirator?”

“As a man,” he replied staunchly.

“Ah, well that’s no good either, since you won’t be a man for much longer.”

Cain frowned, and a prickle of anxiety raced up his spine. “Please, just let me go, and I’ll never trouble these parts again.” He took a step back, deciding flight would probably be better than fighting the wizard, even if he looked old and feeble.

“You’re right, you won’t.” The wizard extended his staff and began to mumble a litany of words Cain didn’t understand. It reminded him of Mornince casting a spell, and so he turned to run. Yet before he could, he felt a gut-wrenching twist deep inside his stomach, and suddenly air was rushing up around him as he seemed to be falling into a black abyss.

A moment later, he felt himself on solid ground, and could feel his heart beating erratically, could smell the mustiness in the heavy darkness. Then it was pulled away like a curtain, and Cain found himself staring up at the wizard, who now towered over him like a mountain. In fact, _everything_ seemed incredibly large.

The ground shook as the wizard stepped closer, and his throaty chuckle echoed like thunder in Cain’s ears. A giant hand loomed toward him, and he tried to run, but a smaller mountain of something soft and plush blocked his path. He felt a pinch, and then it was as though someone had yanked him up by his tailbone.

The wizard’s upside-down face appeared inches from his own, and a terrified squeak escaped Cain’s throat. Wait…did _he_ just make that sound? He opened his mouth to yell and curse, but all that came out were garbled squeals. No, this couldn’t be real. He flailed and thrashed, heart rate kicking into overdrive as the wizard dangled him in the air.

“Norman,” the old man whistled. “I have a toy for you.”

_What? Who was—_

The wizard flicked his wrist, and then Cain was flung end-over-end through the air. He landed with a plop on the ground that left him dazed. When his vision cleared, he found himself face to face with that same little fox devil. Only now the tiny fox was _bigger_ than him.

Huge, bat-like ears flicked, and then a paw blindsided him, knocking him into another roll. He tried to gain his feet and flee, but the fox pounced on him. Something pinched his tail again—oh gods, he had a _tail_ —and he was flung up into the air again. The fox gave a delighted yip. Each toss and bat of a paw left him more and more dizzy, until at long last his head descended into the madness of a mouse, and Cain the man knew no more.

~*~

A few days later when a tiny fennec fox appeared in Thranduil’s bedchamber to deposit a dead rodent at his feet, the Elvenking was bewildered to say the least, and a little put out. Yet there was something about the way the fox sat on the floor with his chest puffed out proudly, coupled with the echoes of a conversation he had dismissed as foolish, that gave Thranduil pause. So he didn’t toss the creature out the window it’d come through, nor did he tell anyone of its strange visit and gift, lest he be considered as addled as a certain Brown Wizard.

 

**The End**


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